To the Bone
by Rhanon Brodie
Summary: "I know the broken heart of longing, Connor," Noah offers softly, once, months ago, when Connor would wake up sweating, her name on his lips, his fingers curled in the blankets. It's been six years since Wren died and the boys fled to Ireland. Nothing wil
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: The beginning of Connor and Pam after Ean Beag. There's gonna be tears. And laughter. And pain. Oh, and smut. Don't you worry._

_I've been on a very long hiatus, and I probably wouldn't have made it through without some very wonderful people: Little Miss Tightly Wound, Valerie E Mackin, pitbullsrok, and siarh have all been so amazing these past few months. I know you ladies all had your own shit to deal with, and I think we're all coming through clean on the other side! I love you all, I feel very blessed to have made such wonderful connections here and otherwise. This is for all of YOU, readers, writers, subscribers, lurkers. Enjoy._

* * *

The light is hazy and he bounces on his toes, ready for the next round, the next swing, the next bone-cracking, skull-numbing punch. Ready for anything, really, so long as the result is blood and cheering and body-warm whiskey. The cut above his eye has stopped bleeding but his vision is not as clear as he'd like it to be. From his corner, he hears his brother tell him to sit down, to take some water, to regroup, but he doesn't listen. Not to his brother, anyway. In his head, his own corner, he hears his lost friend, his lost love, the sound of gunfire and his father's voice softly reciting the family prayer. All around him, the hushed din of the crowd is murky and he feels for a moment that he is perhaps drowning, finally, and he'll be able to have some peace and quiet.

The ringing of the makeshift bell somewhere sucks him back to the ring and his head and vision clears for one bright moment. Across the way, his opponent watches, unsure of his next move.

Connor has seen the outcome, plagued by the visions for days now. He comes out of his corner roaring, and with an elegant arc and sharp angle his left hand feigns, and his right hand, torn and callused and bloody, finishes the job. His opponent staggers once and then goes down, and Connor spits across the mat and leans over the body.

"Now, stay tha fuck down," he growls. If this man gets up, they both know it will be all over. Connor's blood is up, his heart beats terribly, and even in his victory, he sways on his feet enough that his brother (always present, always patient) storms the ring that someone erected in the old storehouse of the pub.

"That's it, Conn," Murphy's rough growl tells him. "That's enough."

"Fer tonight," Connor mutters, but he nods and lets his brother (only his brother) walk him back to the low, three-legged stool stolen from somebody's dairy farm, and sling the blood-stained towel around his neck. A bottle of whiskey appears under his nose and he drinks long and deep before handing it off to Murphy. Over his head, while he sits and contemplates the bloodied face of the would-be contender across the way, money exchanges hands, great wads, and they disappear into Murphy's pockets quickly. No sense in showing off what Connor's fists can _really_ do: break down a man's wellbeing, slaughter the livelihood that was a struggle to establish.

He has no remorse. Hasn't had any in a long time. With a deep breath, he leans back against the ropes that cut and make him bleed every time, and tilts his head up to the rafters. Blood runs down the back of his throat, thick and coppery and hot, and it mingles with the whiskey. His lip is split; it stings as Murphy tucks a lit cigarette between them, and the smoke only adds to the flavour of victory. In the morning, it will be a sour, chalky thing that sticks in his throat, but for tonight, Connor will drink it all down and hold it with the fire in his belly and eventually pass out, too troubled to sleep for a long time now.

* * *

The morning is gray and cold. Not surprising in the least, and Murphy takes some comfort in the familiarity of it. Coming home had been rather cathartic for him, had solidified who he was, made some sense of who he had been and what he'd seen. The floorboards of the porch creaked; he didn't bother lifting his head from the scrap of wood he absently carved. The smell of pipe tobacco and leather filled his nostrils and he sat back in his chair as his father sat beside him.

It was mostly silence that Noah MacManus shared with his darker son, but it was a relatively easy, echoing stillness that seemed to suit the pair just fine. The MacManus patriarch had been slowly but surely getting to know his sons – at least, he thought he had been. He was certain he had Murphy figured out (save for those secrets a man had every right to maintain): silent, patient, persistent, maybe a little sullen, and watchful. The dark-haired twin was painfully observant, a skill that proved to be invaluable, but lately, since they'd returned home, it had been focused on Connor.

Connor, who had been lion-hearted and fiercely protective of his brother, had turned with the tide that brought him home, and Noah could best describe his fairer son as quietly agitated. Like something was gnawing at him. He knew that _this_ son sought his demons in the ring on a nightly basis and delivered swift, bloodied justice to the poor, unknowing souls that dared to challenge him. Noah didn't exactly agree with it, but he understood it, didn't stand in the way of it, and prayed furiously that Connor would find peace again.

Noah tugs the pouch of tobacco from his pocket and fills his pipe, hands working swift and sure as he has done this a thousand times before. A match is struck and touched to the sweet, peaty mess; the wisp of smoke curling from his mouth surrounds him as he stares out onto the brown fields of late autumn.

"Hafta get the lot up to Banner's Bridge today," Murphy rasps, setting his wood aside and rolling a cigarette. Silence and smoke, then, is their communion, and he lights the unfiltered thing and lets it hang from his mouth as he picks up the wood again.

"Aye," Noah nods as he begins to rock in the rough-hewn chair. He adds sheep to the list of things he shares with this son, for Murphy is the only one who has settled into some sort of routine that doesn't solely involve whiskey and fists. "Shouldn't take long, if ya have Connor with ya."

Murphy shakes his head, knowing that his brother won't be up for the ride, not after the bell-ringing he'd received last night. Sure, Connor had won, but he had taken a beating as a parting gift. "Move faster on me own," Murphy shrugs, knowing it to be true. Even if he could get Connor to saddle up, it would be slow going. Better to let his twin sleep it off into the afternoon.

Noah nods and takes another puff from his pipe. "We need some things from town," he states a while later. "Maybe you'll take him then."

Murphy nods, pinching off the cigarette before standing. "Aye." He steps off the porch and heads for the stable to saddle his horse.

* * *

Connor wonders if it is the filty, cracked mirror that's making him look like shit, or if his face really is that messed up. The eye with the cut over it has been glued shut in the night by weeping blood; it is swollen, extending out towards his cheekbone, and he winces as he nudges the wound with a fingertip. "Fuck," he utters, looking down to the sink and cranking the taps open. Strange, that in a tiny shack in the middle of nowhere, shared with his brother and a man they call 'Da' that they should get hot water while stateside, they had to take their chances and more often than not dealt with freezing balls and shrinkage.

His hands hover near the rushing water and after a second, he reaches and cuts off the hot stream, opting for cold. He ducks his head and douses it, the icy ache making his skull throb. Goosebumps flare on his bare shoulders; he cups his hand and drinks steadily for a minute or two, trying to drown that awful taste in his mouth.

_If I had ta taste anything for the rest of my life, it'd be this, and he stares up at Pam from between her thighs_.

The memory slices through him like a stab of cold lightening and he straightens suddenly, his head swimming. He pushes his soaking hair back from his face and looks at himself once more.

It's not the mirror that's making him look like shit.

It's the memories.

* * *

"I know the broken heart of longing, Connor," Noah offers softly, once, months ago, when Connor would wake up sweating, her name on his lips, his fingers curled in the blankets.

Connor knows he knows, can hear it still in his voice, and he looks at this man Murphy calls 'Da' and wonders if someday he'll be just like him.

The woodstove is still warm, but not enough to heat the coffee that was percolated for breakfast. The iron door opens with a creaking protest and Connor tosses more wood in, stoking the flames, and then swings the door shut. The mugs are chipped stoneware and he suddenly longs for a ridiculously sized mug in a pleasantly cluttered flat across the pond. The mug lands on the table with a clatter and Connor sinks to the bench seat with a sigh. Through the murky glass of the window, he stares out onto the muddy property he now calls home and watches as his brother leads one of the horses out and saddles it with ease. Connor rolls a cigarette and lights it, and in the gray light that spills through that window, he stops for a moment and allows the avalanche to take him over.

_"We leave in the morning."_

_Pam stared into the darkness of her apartment, barely able to make out Connor sitting on her couch. With a sigh, she set her bags down and shut the door, and only then did Connor flick on the lamp light._

_"You look like hell," Pam declared. He hadn't shaved for a few days and his hair was hanging over his eyes. His eyes – once so vibrant and blue – looked a little lost, a little dull, and were surrounded by the dark circles of sleepless nights._

_Connor scoffed. "Aye, thanks, lass. Just what I wanted to hear." His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn't used it for weeks._

_Pam toed her boots off and shrugged out of her jacket. "What did you want to hear, then?"_

_He hung his head for a moment, running his fingers through his hair, and then looked back up at her. "I don't know," he answered truthfully._

_"I haven't seen or heard from you in three weeks and you just show up, break into my apartment, and get pissed when I say the first thing that comes to mind? Perhaps I should go with the second thought and say 'What the hell, Connor? What the fuck are you doing here?'" Her voice steadily rose until she was close to yelling._

_Connor stood from the couch and crossed the floor to stand in front of her. "M'sorry. I don't want ta fight, Pam. Don't be angry. This is me last night in Boston an' I thought…I just thought…" He broke off at Pam's hard gaze._

_She raised a sceptical eyebrow. "You just thought that you'd come by for one last screw and then hop on a plane, or a boat, or whatever it is you're taking to leave town? I may be a bit of a pushover, Conn, but I'm not an idiot." She went to move past him but he caught her arm and stopped her._

_"Pam," he said, resigned. "I don't want ta be alone tonight."_

_She refused to look at him. "What about Murphy?" she snapped._

_His hand left her as if she had burned him. "Now, dat's just not fair, lass."_

_This time, she whirled and stared at him, her green and gold eyes blazing. "__**Fair**__? You want to talk about __**fair**__? How is your skulking off in the middle of the night to some secret location and leaving me here to pick up the pieces __**fair**__?"_

_He stared silently at her._

_The sound of her palm connecting with his cheek cracked through the quiet. "Fuck you, MacManus," she growled. He barely flinched, enraging her more, and she struck him again. "Fuck you, fuck your brother, and fuck your holy calling…"_

_Connor's hand grabbed hers before she could hit him again. "Easy, lass. Ya can say what ya like about me and Murph, but leave tha Lord out of it." His tone was low and tense._

_Pam's eyes narrowed. She tore her hand from Connor's grip and stepped back. "What makes you think I want ya here?" she hissed._

_He lifted his eyes to hers. "Because ya haven't told me ta leave," he answered softly._

_She closed her eyes, fighting back the wry grin that wanted to smear her face. "Yer a smug prick, Connor." Opening her eyes, she found him staring back, mere inches from her face._

_"Aye," he murmured. "But ya love me."_

_Pam shook her head. "God help me, I do."_

_"Good. I love ya back, lass. Always."_

_He kissed her then, cutting off anything else she might have said. He kissed her deep, and long, and when she managed to break away for a much needed breath, he was back on her in seconds, his mouth sliding against hers as his hands cupped her face, and tilted her to his liking._

_At some point, their clothing was discarded, and they picked their way to the bedroom, pausing against the half-wall of the kitchen to skate fingertips over warm skin and for their mouths to taste and explore rough and smooth and taut and tender. He took his time, something he was proud of, and he ached sweetly between his hips when he slipped two fingers easily inside of her luscious body and had her mewling into his mouth._

_He took one nipple into his mouth, and then the other, in a barrage of teeth and tongue, until Pam was shaking against him and moaning his name. When he relented, she retaliated, and fisted him roughly, winding her tongue with his. The fingers of her free hand snared his hair and tugged, until his head tilted back and she had access to his throat. She bit him softly, making him growl, and let him push her hand aside so that he could move her to the bedroom._

_"_Is brea liom tu_," he said softly as he hovered between her thighs. He rested on his forearms so that his hands could brush her hair back from her face and neck. Pressing his lips to hers, he murmured again, "_Beidh me gra I gconai leat._"_

_Her heart ached, as did her throat, and she pushed the tears back as he entered her smoothly, and brought her knees to his hips. Her back arched up from the mattress and his hands slid to her waist, holding her there while his forehead rested between her breasts._

_"Connor," Pam breathed, lifting her hips. "More."_

_He came up under her slow and sure, drawing out their pleasure in gentle waves. Pam gnawed the inside of her cheek as her emotions threatened to spill over. She'd fucked Connor, screwed him, rode him, shagged him, and he'd done all the same to her. But making love? That had always been too tame. That had always been too much. Now, Connor was relentless, moving so surely and so gently that Pam could only cling silently to him, her arms snaking around his shoulder and neck, her hips rising to meet his. She buried her face in his neck and whimpered quietly at the sensations rippling through her body._

_It was hot. Sweat slicked and fierce. And for both of them, it had never quite been like this before. Connor fought to acknowledge his own lust and instead concentrated on Pam, on the feel of her, her warmth, her smell, her voice, her softness. He committed it all to memory, choking back the pain of his departure with every plunge of his hips. _

_"I need you," he whispered hotly against her throat. Then he groaned, and pulled her legs tighter around his waist. With a gentle move, he turned them, and arranged Pam in his lap as he knelt beneath her. Their hands found each other and laced fingers tightly, gliding over taut, hot flesh. The harder Pam came down on him, the harder Connor surged up, until he was breathless._

_Her breasts were crushed against the hard planes of his chest and soon their hearts beat in time and the blood roared in their ears. She looked down at him, with wide eyes, her hands clutching the back of his neck for leverage. His eyes squeezed shut at the first shudder that ran through his body. "Pam," he gulped, his hands clutching her thighs, her hips, and her face._

_She nodded. She was close; he was closer. She held him to her, her chin resting on his shoulder as her hands swept up his back and then down, gliding over muscle and ink and scars. "Come with me," she pleaded. Bringing her head up, she cupped his face and tilted it, and then pressed her lips to his. "Connor," she whispered._

_He bucked once, and then pulled her hips down and stilled her as he felt her flutter, and then tighten around him. He stared into her eyes as she careened over the edge and moaned loudly as the gold in her irises seemed to burst and sparkle. That was all the push he needed. His eyes fluttered shut at the force of his orgasm and he let the tears fall and mingle with sweat._

* * *

She didn't wake suddenly, as if torn from the dream, but rather floated to the surface like she was coming up from a long, warm swim. Her eyes were wet when she opened them and she wished terribly that, at that very second, she was staring up at the tin ceiling of her old Boston flat with one half of an Irish matched set snoring softly beside her.

The dark head of hair that occupied the other pillow, however, belonged to her five-year old daughter, Shayne, and the _other_ Irishman that had previously occupied that pillow in that current room had been dead for two years. Sighing, Pam threw an arm over her eyes and tried to settle back to sleep.

"Ma?" Shayne's voice floated up from the comforter. "Ma, are you awake? You were talking in your sleep."

"Hmm?" Pam rolled to her side, her previous thoughts forgotten as she looked into the clear green eyes of her daughter. "What did I say?"

Shayne frowned for a moment. "Ya said 'Connor.' _Again_. Who is he?"

Pam bit her lip and looked across the room to the bathroom, not sure how to proceed. She couldn't help but feel she was betraying the memory Shayne's father by dreaming of another man. Her eyes floated to the comforter and picked at a stray thread. "Just someone I used to know," she admitted, rather hoarsely. Finally, her eyes met Shayne's.

Shayne gave her mother a rather inquisitive look, one that looked so much like her father Matt that Pam's heart ached with both guilt and sorrow. "C'mere," Pam said, pulling Shayne closer and burrowing beneath the comforters. She pressed her lips to Shayne's hair and inhaled the soft, sweet smell. "Aren't you supposed to be sleeping in your own bed?"

"But I heard you," Shayne explained, wrapping her fingers in Pam's cinnamon coloured waves. "I heard you talking and thought you were up, or on the phone…but you were sleeping…so I crawled in."

Pam nodded, wrapping her arms a little tighter around her daughter. "No harm done," Pam whispered, closing her eyes. "What time is it?"

"Eight," Shayne answered wistfully.

Pam yawned and nodded once more.

_Then_ she started awake. "Eight?" She whipped the blankets back, shivering at the cool air in the bedroom. She'd never bothered to reprogram the thermostat that Matt had set – the man had run like a heater at night and insisted on temperatures fit for Iceland. "Jesus, Shayne, you're going to be late for school!" She sprung out of bed and threw on her housecoat before reaching for her daughter's foot. "C'mon, get up!" she crowed, dragging the giggling five-year old from the mattress.

"Lord's name!" Shayne huffed, having her great grandmother to thank for that. "Ma, wait!" she cried as she watched her mother sail to the bathroom. Seconds later, she returned, a toothbrush jammed her mouth while she wrestled into a pair of jeans.

"Shayne, hurry and get dressed," Pam muttered through a mouthful of toothpaste. "No time for breakfast; we'll stop and get a Starbucks, okay?"

"Ma," Shayne droned again, this time flopping back on the bed. "It's _Saturday_."

Pam froze and moved to her dresser, and turned on her cell phone. Sure enough, the date _Saturday, April 17 _stared back at her. "Oh, thank Christ," she muttered, pulling the toothbrush from her mouth.

"Ma-_a_!" Shayne growled again. "_Lord's name_!"

"Aye, Hail Mary," she muttered, rolling her eyes heavenward. "I have to go into the studio today," Pam announced as she flopped back onto the bed with a groan. "Do you want to come with or would you rather I dropped you off at Auntie Mel's?" She craned her head to watch her daughter's reaction.

Shayne didn't disappoint, wrinkling her nose at the mention of Aunt Jenny, her father's oldest sister. "Not Aunty Mel's," Shayne declared. "She's boring. She makes me sit and tries to teach me the piano." The dark-haired girl bounded to her knees and smiled broadly. "Can I please go with you? Please, please, _please_?" she clamoured, crawling to her mother and fitting into her lap.

"I dunno," Pam sang. "You know what Grandma Burke says – it's not a place for young ladies." Not that it would sway Pam's decision in the slightest, but Fiona Burke had an opinion about everything, especially her daughter-in-law's choice of career. Owning and running a tattoo parlour didn't rank highly on the list, unlike staying at home and pushing out half a dozen babies.

Shayne made another face and blew a stream of air from her mouth, ruffling her dark hair and looking like Matt once more. "I promise I won't say anything at dinner tomorrow," Shayne said.

Pam grinned. "Yer a good lass, Shayne Leary-Burke," Pam said softly, tucking her daughter's hair behind her ears. "And if you want to tell Grandma Burke how you spent your Saturday, that's fine with me. Those Sunday dinners can be boring, anyway. Might liven things up." Pam sat up halfway and kissed Shayne's forehead. "Go get dressed, all right?"

Shayne slid onto the floor and nodded. "Can we still get a Starbucks?" she asked from the door.

"Strawberry frappucino?" Pam asked, knowing that was what her daughter _always_ had. She smiled as her daughter's dark waves bounced excitedly. She waved her daughter away. "Only if we get in the car by nine, alright?"

And with that, Pam was left alone, and once more she flopped back onto the mattress. She found herself reaching out blindly and fumbling with the drawer of her nightstand and, when she'd pulled it open, reaching inside. Her fingers curled around the cool metallic thread and she pulled out a necklace, catching the Celtic trinity knot pendant between her thumb and her forefinger.

"Past, present, future," she mumbled softly, remembering what Murphy had whispered to her six years ago when he handed it to her on the balcony. The sudden crash from the bathroom startled Pam from her memories and she rolled from the bed to her feet, absently stuffing the necklace in to her pocket. Even with Shayne's shout of "Nothing! I'm fine," Pam rushed to the bathroom to investigate, all of her previous thoughts forgotten.


	2. Chapter 2

_Boston, MA, April 2006_

"Pam? Phone call."

Pam looked up at the redhead in her doorway. She didn't normally get phonecalls at work, and the only one that _would_ call her was Shayne. She frowned and cocked her head at the shop girl for a bit more explanation. The redhead shrugged, so Pam did to, and nodded, before leaning back from the forearm of her current client. "Do you mind, Jake? You look like you could use a breather."

Jake, a twenty-seven year old law student, grinned and glanced down at the current piece Pam had been working on. "Absolutely. Shit, this is fucking awesome, Pam," he gushed, taking in the stark silhouette of a forest skyline that she had started at the wrist with the pitch black of ground and worked her way up to the treeline near his elbow.

This was his third visit, the outline having been completed during the first session. Last Saturday, Pam had started filling it in, a long, repetitive process, with varying degrees of depth to provide shading. Her hand was prone to cramping with long sessions, but she'd never complain. Sitting back she waited until Jake had snuck out of the cubicle and into the front of the shop before rolling her wrist and flexing her fingers. She looked back to the redhead in her doorway.

"Did they say who it was, Sloane?"

Sloane Bishop shrugged her slender, tattooed shoulders. "I'm guessing it's family – he sounds pretty Irish." She grinned and held the beaded curtain back for Pam to pass through.

"Is Shayne behaving?"

Slone nodded. "I gave her a Snapple and set her up with some markers at the side desk. She's more interested in charming the customers than drawing."

Pam chuckled. "I'll take the call back here." She picked up the phone on the wall and ducked into the office, the long cord trailing behind her. "Hello?"

"Pamela? It's Uncle Seamus."

Pam stilled at his voice. Uncle Seamus was normally quite jovial, especially on phone calls. His greeting, however, was rather sombre. "Hey, Seamus," she breathed before leaning against the wall. "How are you?"

"M'fine lass. Look, I'm sorry ta bother you at work but…it's yer Da, Pam."

A lump formed in her throat. Her father Dan had been sick for a while with a cancer that refused to leave. It had turned rather aggressive in the winter and had seemed to back off in February. She felt her throat tighten and she splayed one hand on the wall beside her, gripping the painted concrete. "How is he," she asked flatly, her voice thin with fear.

There was a pause on the other end and Pam knew it wasn't a delay. "M'sorry, lass," Seamus sighed at last. "He's gone."

* * *

_"Look, stop goofing around – NO! Connor, give it back!" Pam giggled and sprung from the bench on the wharf to chase after the camera Connor had snatched._

_Mid-January and the snow had melted. The air was cool and damp, and Pam was buried up to her ears in a heavy sweater and a long coat, and still she shivered. Her breath puffed as she sighed at Connor's antics. She dove at him as he passed her, her gloved fingers grazing the sleeve of his coat._

_"Oi, Murph, catch!" Connor tossed the camera to his brother as he passed, and then howled with laughter as he spun and caught Pam just as she launched herself into his arms._

_He smelled like cold air and wool, cigarettes and something warm and spicy, and so Connor that it was ingrained. As she was swung around, her hair whipped up around her shoulders and she heard the shutter of her camera snap. Looking up with wide eyes, Murphy waved and continued snapping pictures as Connor began to tickle her relentlessly. Soon, man and woman were a pile of heaving breaths and sighs, smiling at each other as they sank down onto a nearby bench._

_Gathering her to his side, Connor pressed the tip of his cold nose to Pam's cheek, earning a small shriek of surprise as he drew it back to her ear. He hummed gently and pressed his lips to her jaw just below her earlobe, and he spoke very softly. "Mo aingeal reoite." _

_Her cheeks heated as she translated quickly: my frozen angel. God in heaven, Connor was a sap, through and through, and Pam was once again thankful for Murphy teaching her Gaelic on the sly. She sighed softly, playing the starry-eyed girlfriend, seemingly reduced to a puddle by Connor's linguistic prowess. Her belly fluttered, though she'd never admit it. She wasn't the type won over by foreign endearments. Was she? She narrowed her eyes, quickly skimming her memories of the last few months, tripping over Italian, Spanish, and German. There were certainly several swoon-like moments while Connor spoke; it was a natural reaction to his cheerful baritone voice, always lilting softly with a hint of laughter._

_The firm, warm press of Connor's fingers to her chin brought her head and her thoughts round to him, and he held her gaze as he pressed a slow, wet kiss to her lips and then drew back a fraction of an inch, smiling softly. "What are you thinkin'?" he asked playfully._

_Christ above, that was a loaded question. She told herself when they started this that she wasn't going to fall in love. Easier said than done; she should have known from experience that you couldn't help who you fell for. She'd be damned if she'd say it first this time. She'd learned her lesson with the last guy. But every smile Connor gave to her seemed only for her; every door he opened led to something new and exciting, and the way he loved his brother was heart-warming and told her that Connor was open with his feelings. _

_She realized he was still watching her, waiting for a reply, and his eyes had softened with a hint of worry. Pam bit her lips and shook her head. "Nothin'," she shrugged, glancing back to Murphy._

_For his part, the dark haired twin just chuckled, liking the fact that he finally had a secret he kept from Connor. He'd agreed to teach Pam Gaelic and not to tell Connor about it – she liked to keep him guessing. And really, sometimes Connor could just be an ass, assuming that no one was capable of learning the languages they both spoke. _

_Murphy winked, and then raised the camera and took another series of shots of Connor and Pam. He then flopped down on Pam's other side, sandwiching her between brothers. He handed the camera back her with a grin. "Someday, you'll thank me," he murmured with a wink._

_Pam smirked and sprung up again, and motioned for Connor and Murphy to slide closer. "C'mon. I bet you don't even have a recent picture of yerselves."_

_They both shrugged and Pam rolled her eyes at the simultaneous movement and how endearing it actually was. _

_"Do we hafta?" Connor whined. She could almost see a younger version of him, ten years old, told to dress in his best for family pictures and being a brat the whole time. _

_Still, he leaned forward, resting an elbow on his knee. He gave Pam his best, barely-there smile. Murphy pursed his lips and leaned back, tilting his head away from the camera so his chin was forward, as if he was challenging it. Just before his head landed on Connor's shoulder, Pam snapped the picture and announced that she was done with her photography, at least for the day. The twins cheered and skittered to their feet, and declared it time for Guinness and shots._

* * *

_Dublin, Ireland_

Pam rubbed her thumb over the faded, slightly creased photograph of the MacManus twins. The landing announcement over the intercom of the plane brought Pam out of her musings and she tucked the photo back into her day planner and buckled her seatbelt.

"Baby, put your seatbelt on. We're going to be landing soon."

Five year old Shayne blinked her bleary eyes and yawned. "We're finally there?"

Pam smiled and tousled her daughter's dark waves. "In Dublin," she replied. "It's still about an hour drive to Coill Dubh. Uncle Seamus will be picking us up."

Shayne sighed, rolling her green and gold eyes. "Fine," she huffed, shifting in her seat and fastening her seatbelt. "But can we get something to eat? I'm starving."

Pam laughed. Shayne was her father's daughter, through and through. Matthew Burke had possessed a hollow leg, Pam was sure, and had been forever hungry. Shayne seemed to share the trait with her father, and for good reason. She was growing like a weed and would no doubt take on her father's long and lean build. With the dark hair, if her eyes were blue she'd look a little bit like…

_Don't go there_, she scolded herself. Ever since Matt had died two years ago in the line of duty, Pam's thoughts had turned more and more to her past and the twin brothers that had crashed into it. The fact that she was landing in Dublin made her anxious, too. She tried telling herself that it was because she was home to bury her father. But there was something more, something else that was niggling in the back of her mind.

"Do they have McDonald's here?"

Pam snapped back to Shayne and seat 15F of the Boeing 747. "Aye," she said, lapsing back easily to a brogue long forgotten. "But you can get a Happy Meal anywhere. I'll have Uncle Seamus stop and find ye something that has more nutritional value."

"I don't _want_ nutritional value, Ma. I _want_ the new _Cars_ toy."

Pam merely looked at her daughter, her eyebrow raised at the tone of voice the five year old was using.

"I mean, I would really like to have the new _Cars_ toy. Please," Shayne quickly corrected. She smiled sheepishly at her mother.

Pam put an arm around the girl and pulled her close, kissing the top of her head. "We'll see what we can find, okay? Did I tell you that Uncle Seamus has a ranch?"

"Yes, Ma," Shayne sighed. "And he has over twenty horses and if I'm lucky, I'll get to help out with the work around the stables."

Pam chuckled and dug her fingertips into Shayne's ribs. "Okay, smarty," she said as the girl squirmed and giggled. "We won't put you to work. But I think we can talk him into taking you for a horseback ride."

"Really?" Shayne blinked up at her mother with a wide grin that made her look so much like Matt, Pam's heart ached.

"Really," she said thickly, quickly looking ahead.

* * *

"Ye sure I can' carry her fer ya, lass? Ye flew so long, ye must be tired."

Pam smiled warmly at her Uncle Seamus. "I'm fine. I'm used to it," she added with a chuckle. "She sleeps for hours, and when she's not sleeping, she's eating. Reminds me of Matt."

Seamus smiled back. "How are tings?"

Pam knew what he was really asking: How are you holding up after Matt's death? "They're good. I'm really quite busy with work. Between that and looking after Shayne, I haven't had a lot of time to think."

"That's not necessarily a good ting, lass," Seamus pointed out as he led Pam up the driveway, Shayne tucked safely snoring in her arms.

"It's what I need right now, Seamus. Now, more than ever."

Seamus paused at the steps of the ranch house. "He loved ye so much, lass. Aye, yer brothers, too, but Danny had a special place fer ya."

Pam nodded, knowing that her father had a special place for Seamus, his younger brother, too. "Have Jimmy and Jack shown up yet?"

"Aye. I put Jimmy an' his wife and kids in the guest house. Jack decided to stay in Clane. I don't tink he's handlin' dis very well."

"He's the baby," Pam reminded her uncle. She shifted Shayne on her hip and followed Seamus inside, where she was greeted warmly by Seamus' wife Maggie.

"So good ta see ye, lass. Here, give me yer bag. I put ye in the room down here so's ye can 'ave yer own toilet, aye?" Maggie led Pam down the hall and to the guest room.

Settling Shayne down on the mattress, Pam threw a quilt over her little girl and moved to the bathroom. She freshened up, splashing cool water on her face and rinsing her mouth before taking her hair from its twist and running her fingers through it. She hadn't been in Ireland a day and already her hair was wildly curling with the damp air. After placing a glass of water on the stand next to the bed for Shayne, Pam dimmed the lamp and wandered back to the kitchen where she found her older brother Jimmy and his wife Suki sitting at the table.

Seamus was rummaging through the cabinets and finally turned with an armload of glasses and a new bottle of Bushmill's. " 'Ave a seat, girl, an' a drink."

The four of them caught up; having not seen each other since Suki's graduation from med school last fall. The diminutive Japanese girl looked to be meek and pleasant, but she was a firecracker and kept Jimmy in line with a smile. Together, Suki and Jimmy had two boys, Wyatt and Teague, who were three and one, respectively. Both boys were doing well, and Jimmy's stint as a biology professor at NYU seemed to be going quite smoothly. Suki was finishing up her residence and was waiting to hear about her placement.

Seamus' ranch was having a banner year, as he'd purchased two studs last season that had proven quite lucrative, resulting in five new foals. His green eyes lit up with excitement at Pam's request to take Shayne for a ride, and he assured her that the girl wouldn't leave without the experience.

"What about Jack?" Pam asked as Suki poured another round.

Jimmy shrugged. "You know Jack. Always the loner. I tracked him down in Thailand when we found out Da was sick. He flew in from Tel Aviv last week. Seamus says he showed up here, drank a bottle of Bushmills and left the number of the Westgrove Hotel, between Clane and Naas."

Pam turned to Seamus. "And ye haven't heard from him since?"

Seamus shrugged and finished his whiskey, and motioned to Suki for another. "He called on Saturday to check in but I haven't seen him since he was here last week."

"Suppose I'll head in tomorrow and see if I can't track him down," Pam decided. She checked the clock on the stove and frowned. "I hate flying through different time zones. Did I gain time or lose it?"

Seamus grinned. "Ye lost it. It's nine here, but back in Boston it's…" he checked his watch and made a show of doing some calculations. "Suki," he finally said, "help an' ol' Irishman out, dear."

Suki winked. "It's one o'clock back in Boston."

Pam shook her head. "And I've been flying since ten last night." She slid her glass to her sister-in-law. "One more, and then it's off ta bed fer me."

* * *

"Ma."

Pam rolled to her side and groaned groggily.

"_Ma_." A dainty finger poked Pam in the end of the nose.

She managed to crack an eye open and was greeted by green and gold eyes and a mass of dark curls. "Hey, _Ma_, yer awake!" Shayne jumped off the bed and ran to the doorway. "Hey Uncle Seamus! She's awake!" she bellowed.

Pam winced and tried to remember just how much whiskey she'd consumed the night before. "Shayne," she muttered hoarsely.

She heard Seamus yell something and Shayne turned back to her mom. "Uncle Seamus wants to know if you want fries up!"

"Stop yelling," Pam admonished gently. She grinned as Shayne crept closer. "And it's called a 'fry up'. Did you eat breakfast?"

Shayne shook her head. "But I had some tea with Aunt Maggie." She bounced on the bed.

Pam eyed her daughter suspiciously. "Oh, did you? How many cups?"

Shayne paused, thinking. "Four!" she chirped. "With lots of sugar!"

Pam rolled to her back and sighed. "Thanks, Aunt Maggie," she muttered. She craned her neck and looked to Shayne once more. "Okay, go and let Uncle Seamus know that we'll both have a fry up. No more tea for you, okay? Have some milk." She forced herself to sitting and squeezed her eyes shut at the dull ache between her temples. "I'm gonna hit the bathroom. Meet me in the kitchen?"

* * *

"Oi, get tha fuck up, Connor. M'goin' in ta town. Yer comin' with. You've slept long enough." Murphy raised a booted foot and nudged the lump on the couch that resembled his twin.

Connor groaned and cracked an eye open. "M'not goin'," he muttered. With a grimace, he turned his back to Murphy and settled his head once more on the worn tweed arm of the sofa.

Murphy narrowed his eyes, spying a worn picture hanging out of Connor's back pocket. He stooped forward and snatched it out, rousing Connor in the process. Murphy jumped back as Connor sprung, and he eyed his brother's vicious sneer with hesitation. "Settle tha fuck down," Murphy muttered, turning his attention to the picture in his hands. It was one that he'd taken, one of Connor and Pam on the docks in Boston, many Januarys ago, and he studied it for a spell before glancing back to Connor.

It was obvious from the moment Murphy sobered up during the trip across the Atlantic that Connor was not dealing well with having to leave Pam Leary. The further the boat trudged, the darker Connor became, until the man that stepped off the boat in Belfast and slunk down the gangplank behind his brother and Da no longer resembled the twin that Murphy had always known. The last six years had been hard on both MacManus brothers.

Connor's hand suddenly covered the picture in Murphy's hands. His fingers curled over the edges and snatched the worn thing away before folding it in half – the crease running a ragged, white line between the pair depicted – and tucking it back into his pocket with a grunt. "Before ya start, just don't," Connor growled, rising on aching bones and joints and pushing past Murphy towards the kitchen.

Murphy was hot on his heels. He'd crept around Connor's active mourning, but the quiet brooding and hurt looks seemed out of place on Connor who had always been ready with a smile, or a laugh, or a joke. He didn't like this new Connor, and the urge to do something about it had been simmering for some time.

"Conn," Murphy began hesitantly. He frowned at his voice – he'd never _once_ hesitated with Connor, nor minced words, nor been afraid to talk about _anything_ with his twin. He paused and then started again. "Brudder, I don't like seein' ya like dis," he began smoothly. Still, he didn't feel as brave as his voice belied. He waited, watching Connor's shoulders rise and fall as he braced himself on the counter.

"Says da man who drank himself stupid fer two weeks," Connor muttered without turning around. He waited a beat and than dug through the cupboard over his head for a glass. He filled it with water from the tap and drank deeply.

Murphy ignored the dig and stalked into the kitchen. "Aye, exactly. Two weeks, Conn. M'not sayin' I got over her overnight, but it's been six years…"

"I don't need remindin'," Connor snapped, setting the empty glass down with _bang_. He finally turned his head and glared sharply at his brother. "Look at _you_," he sneered. "You can't even say her fuckin' _name_. Talk ta me about mournin', ya little pissant." Connor straightened and turned right around, crossing his arms over his chest. "What's tha matter, Murph?" he jeered when his darker half fell sullen and silent. "Little birdie fly away wit' yer words?"

Murphy's eyes narrowed further. "Ah, fuck you, yer still fuckin' drunk." He waved Connor off dismissively. He then made the mistake of turning his back to him.

Connor immediately pounced, grabbing Murphy's shoulder and hauling him around roughly. "No, c'mon, Murph," he sneered. The flare of shock and glimmer of fear in Murphy's blue eyes nearly stopped Connor – _nearly_ – but the fairer brother was too far gone to really care about anything but his own pain. With a vicious yank he hauled Murphy back into the kitchen and sent him barrelling into the counter. "Let's talk."

They fought – they _always_ fought; they were brothers, and twins at that. This was different. Murphy had seen this look in Connor's usually bright blue eyes: the dull register of auto pilot, of a man hell bent on destruction. He braced himself for the blows that would surely come. "Connor," Murphy began lowly, feeling the counter bite into his back as he slid against it. "We both lost someone…"

"I didn't _lose_ her!" Connor roared, launching into action. His fists flew out and he grunted as he felt the firm but yielding flesh of Murphy's midsection under his knuckles. "Wren _died_, Murphy. I had to leave Pam still breathin'…still fuckin' _livin'_. Do you get that?" He wound up again, ignoring the elbow to his solar plexus and throwing his fists into the mix.

Murphy grimaced with the bare truth, but the feeling of Connor's fist on his mouth spurred him to retaliate. He swung out, cracking Connor on the button, and while he reeled, Murphy leaned down and rammed his shoulder into Connor, sending both of them to the floor. Immediately, Connor swung to top position, knees pinning Murphy's shoulders down while he rained down with powerful fists. Skin split, but on his knuckles or Murphy's face, he didn't know, and he didn't care. The blood came, and beneath him Murphy growled and bucked, shouting his own strings of curses as Connor barked at him in all the languages they knew.

"Conn!" The plea rose up sharply from Murphy.

Connor's fists faltered as his brother's voice reached him through the red haze that threatened to take over completely. He blinked and saw the blood smeared over Murphy's nose and lower half of his face, and he immediately drew back, horrified that he'd busted up his brother so badly.

"Fuck," he uttered, angry at himself now for letting things get out of hand. He sank back, sitting on Murphy's chest, glaring down hotly at his little brother.

Murphy blinked and turned his head to the side, spitting out blood. He wiggled until he had an arm free and he reached up and touched his bruised face gingerly. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, Connor," Murphy growled. Connor leaned back enough for Murphy to sit up and he did just that, shoving Connor off so that he tumbled to his backside. Murphy pulled his knees up and leaned back against the counter, holding his nose and inspecting his bloody fingertips further.

Seeing Murphy's blood churned the whiskey still sloshing in Connor's stomach, and he scrambled to his feet and dodged his brother in time to heave into the kitchen sink. That's how Noah found the pair – Murphy bleeding and slumped against the counter while Connor stood half over him and half over the sink, wiping the remnants of vomit from his chin while gasping for air.

The eldest MacManus surveyed the scene, his bright blue eyes flicking from one son to the other as they stared back. Noah glanced at the mug in his hands and then stalked into the kitchen, stepping over Murphy and shouldering Connor aside to rinse the mug out. He set it gently on the counter. "We're out of milk. Add that to tha list, aye?" He turned and left the kitchen without another word, or another glance back.

With a heavy sigh, Connor reached a hand down towards Murphy, and the dark-haired twin took it reluctantly, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. They stared at each other for a spell before Connor nodded stiffly. "Looks like we're goin' ta town, brudder."

Murphy's mouth was grim, still covered with blood, and he swiped at it with the back of his hand before nodded back. "Aye."


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: DeDe324 mentioned Connor in some sort of 'Fight Club'...more or less, yeah, but think more of Mickey the Pikey (Brad Pitt's character) in 'Snatch'. We're talking illegal bare knuckle boxing. It's gonna get bloody, folks, and messy. I'm going for full on feels. It's been a long time coming, after all. Thanks to those who have read and reviewed, favorited, subscribed, follwed me on twitter, and just general fuckery._

* * *

Jack Leary was the opposite of his older brother and sister, in both looks and temper. While Jimmy had dark hair and Pam's was somewhere between brown and red, Jack was a ginger, through and through. His hair was dark auburn, his skin fair and dusted with freckles, and his eyes were dark and grey, stormy, like his current mood. On a whim, he glanced back over his shoulder in time to see said brother and sister walk into the hotel bar. He rolled his eyes as he turned back to the bartender, and motioned for another two fingers of whiskey.

"Jesus, Jack, ya been at it since breakfast?" Jimmy commented snidely as he hopped onto the stool beside his brother.

"Lay off, Jimmy," Pam warned. She glanced at her baby brother. "Had anything to eat?"

Jack successfully ignored Jimmy, something he'd learned to do in high school, and shook his head at Pam's question. He tried to protest when she flagged down the bartender and order bangers and potatoes with a glass of tomato juice, but was secretly warmed. Pam was always looking out for him, and he for her, and it had been far too long since they'd been in the same room.

"How was Thailand?" Pam asked as she ordered vodka and soda from a rather confused looking bartender. She'd consumed enough whiskey the night before.

"Hot," Jack said before taking a sip of his drink. "Humid."

"It's the jungle, ass-jack," Jimmy muttered.

"No shit, boyo," Jack quickly retorted. He looked back to Pam. "Hiked through the jungles, swan in waterfalls, slept on the beaches." He rolled up his pant leg and pointed to an impressive piece of ink on the back of his calf, portraying a charging bull elephant dressed in traditional procession costume.

"Nice color," Pam commented, leaning down for a closer look. "But I'm guessing you didn't go with the bamboo needle?"

Jack laughed. "I'm a fan of tattoos, Pam, not torture. But I have their booklet in my bag; I'll be sure to bring it by to Uncle Seamus'." He picked up a fork and tucked into the plate set before him.

"Shayne is eager to see you," Pam pointed out.

Jack paused his chewing and pointed at Pam with his fork. "Pulling out the heavy artillery all ready?" He winked and picked up the glass of tomato juice. "Can I get some vodka down here?" he called out.

The bartender frowned and pulled a bottle from the shelf. "Lord in Heaven, you'd tink we were in Russia wit all the damn vodka floatin' in 'ere," he joked as he poured a healthy amount into Jack's glass. "Whatever happened to raisin' the young ta like whiskey?"

Pam made a face that made Jack laugh. "She doesn't drink it – at least, not like she should. And last time I checked, it doesn't mix well with tomato juice. Thank you, sir, you are a fine, upstanding gentleman."

"Aye, whatever," the bartender groused. "Don't ferget ta tip, ye Yankee bastard."

Jack raised his glass in salute and took a long sip. He turned back to Pam. "You usually use Shayne as a last resort to get me to show up at a family function."

"Da's funeral is not a _function_," Jimmy cut in.

"Can we _not_ do this?" Pam pleaded. She looked to Jimmy and then to Jack. "We're all here for one reason, and whether or not we stay for a few days or a few weeks, you know we're going to be spending that time in each other's company. I don't want to upset the rest of the family, so cool it, all right?"

Jimmy and Jack looked at one another and shrugged. "Yes, Pam," they sang. Jimmy shot a final elbow to Jack's ribs and Jack retaliated with cuffing Jimmy upside the head.

The three siblings were silent for a moment, content, until Jack pushed his plate away and drained his glass. "Well," he sighed, signalling for the bill. "Where are we drinkin' tonight?" He looked at his brother and sister with an eager smile.

Jimmy shrugged. "Yer the one who's been here longer. You tellin' me ye haven't scouted out any bars?"

Jack smiled. "As it happens, I met a charmin' little lass on Sunday at the market in Naas. She owns a whiskey house just off Prosperous Drive. I say we check it out, drink in some local color, so ta speak, and let the evening take us where it will."

Jimmy shook his head. "Christ, Jack, ye always had a way with the girls, didn't ya?"

Jack winked. "Learned everyting from Da."

Jimmy snorted. "More like Uncle Kenny."

The three of them lifted their glasses. "God rest his soul."

Pam looked pleadingly at her brother. "Come back to Seamus' with us, Jack. Stop bein' the loner and stay with us. You know Shayne would love to have you there."

With a resigned sigh, Jack nodded. "All right. Let me pack my things and check out. I'll meet you out front in fifteen."

* * *

The twins hadn't spoken more than two words to one another since the fight in the kitchen. Now, they stood in front of the dairy cases at Culligan's Grocer, staring at gallon cartons of milk and baskets of eggs. The silence stretching between them was palatable, and each one eyed the other, wanting the say something - anything. Murphy, who was usually a little sullen and silent, had a million thoughts racing through his brain. Connor, on the other hand, thought of his own pain, and that which he had caused Murphy. The bruises on his younger brother's face would heal; the blood had been wiped away, but Connor's angry words still echoed in both of their ears. Heaving a sigh of resignation, Connor opened his mouth to break the ice.

"MacManus." Someone else beat him to it.

Connor paused at the sound of his surname and slowly lifted his head, turning to the source of it. His eyes narrowed as he recognized Frankie McGee and his cousin Marcus. They pair were part of Kevin McGee's training team, Kevin McGee being the kid he'd trounced three months prior. Stifling a smug grin, Connor nodded with a passive look. "Frankie. Marcus. How's yer cousin?"

Marcus made a face and glanced to Frankie who laughed sharply. "He's been trainin' since ya last met."

"That so," Connor sniffed, unaffected by the obvious bait Frankie was laying. Connor turned and called down the aisle to where Murphy had moved and was now perusing condiments. "Oi, Murph!" The darker twin looked up. "Frankie McGee says young Kevin has been _trainin'_ dese last months." His tone was mocking.

Murphy shrugged and left his spot, pacing up the floor and glancing from Frankie to Marcus, and then finally to Connor. "Aye, good fer him," Murphy mocked.

Frankie rolled his shoulders and puffed up his chest before stepping into Connor's space. Narrowing his light brown eyes, Frankie glared up at the MacManus for a moment. "Ya think yer so unbeatable, doncha, MacManus? Tink' yer special carrying round' wit' tha nickname 'Wolf'."

Connor snorted, not only at Frankie's tone and apparently bruised ego, but the ludicrous nickname the locals had come up with for him. Sure, his name meant 'little wolf' in Gaelic, but being called 'The Wolf' was a little obtuse. Murphy had agued, however, stating that it suited him perfectly – snarling and angry, like a lone wolf without a pack or purpose, one that would fight to the bone to survive, if only to be beaten down the next day. Connor had thumped his brother good after that, but as they sat on the steps to the cabin an hour after exchanging blows, now sharing cigarettes, Connor's mind had started working overtime and the result was permanently etched in ink on the inside of his left bicep, the spot a mirror for the demon Murphy had gotten back in Boston.

Under the bulk of his jacket and sweater, the tattoo flexed as his muscle did, and his shoulders twitched with the same intensity they did before a fight. He knew what was coming so he beat Frankie to the punch. "You wantin' a rematch?"

"That we do," Frankie nodded with a feral grin. "We was thinkin' t'night."

With pursed lips, Connor nodded, and when Murphy sputtered in protest from his spot beside him, Connor ignored him, his eyes fixed intently on Frankie. "It's a bit short notice," he finally seceded, knowing that Murphy was concerned about the beating from the night before.

"We've got the venue. All we need is a full card."

"Who ya got lined up if Connor says no?" Murphy butted in, earning a glare from Connor.

Frankie eyed the darker twin, never quite at ease when the two of them were within arms' reach of each other. He'd never admit it, but he was fairly certain he never wanted to tangle with them in a bar brawl, on their own or as a pair. "Tom Landry says his boy Bobby is ready at a moment's notice. Might be better – he's a mite younger than yer brudder here."

"Fuck you, Frankie," Connor snapped, shouldering Murphy aside. "I've herded lambs tougher than yer cousin. Ya got venue? I'll fill yer card."

"You want in, it's a thousand."

Murphy gritted his teeth and switched to Italian. "_Is it really worth it, Conn_?"

Connor never blinked, never took his eyes from Frankie, but he answered Murphy readily in the same language. "_It's not like we can't afford it._"

Murphy's eyes widened for a moment at Connor's breezy approach. "_Ya had yer bell rung last night_."

"_Si,_" Connor breathed, "_an' it won't be tha last. M'fine, Murph. Now, keep it down, right? Yer older brudder is workin'._" He switched back to English and spoke to Frankie. "A thousand it is. When's the call?"

"Main even starts at ten. Don't be late."

"Aye, ya just make sure yer boy shows. An' make sure he's ready. This time, m'not takin' it easy on him," Connor replied. This time, he let the smug grin fly.

Frankie growled but shoved his hand out and shook Connor's firmly. He and Marcus turned on their heels and left the MacManus twins standing in the condiment aisle.

For a moment, Murphy stared blankly at Connor, confused at how fast the fight terms had been made. Usually, there was a bit of back and forth, some preamble, and almost always, whiskey was involved. What Connor had just done seemed reckless and it left a bad taste in Murphy's mouth. The fight from the morning had been forgotten. This was seroius shit.

"Quit yer worrryin'," Connor muttered as he led his brother to the dairy case and pulled out two gallons of milk. "The Wolf's got this, aye?" The smile he flashed Murphy did little to assuage the doubt of the dark-haired brother.

"Aye," Murphy nodded warily. "Dat's what I'm 'fraid of."

* * *

Pam warily eyed the sign for _Madra Dubh_, quickly translating it to English. The Gaelic read _Black Dog_ and she felt a tender ache in her throat as she remembered Murphy teaching her the ins and outs of the Irish language, and the reasoning behind the names of Irish Pubs.

_"More often than not, ye'll get an uninspired Irishman wantin' ta open a bar wit' his own name. Power to him." Murphy smiled and lifted his glass to Doc. "But den ye get those Irishmen who are too pissed drunk ta see straight or remember their name, and they name their bar after da first ting they _do_ recognize. Hence "Dog and Duck", "Black Swan", "Three Cats", an' "Molly Malone"._

She glanced at Jack and then to Jimmy in the rear-view mirrror, and then back to the small, slightly dilapidated one-storey building at the end of a muddy road in Naas. "So this is a whiskey house," she murmured, putting Aunt Maggie's Jetta in 'park'.

"Yep," Jack grinned from his spot in the passenger side.

"Looks like it will blow over in a stiff wind," Jimmy pointed out with a grumble.

"I wouldn't doubt it," Jack laughed. "C'mon, time's wastin'. Whiskey to be drank." He was out of the car and up the broken stone walk before either sibling could say anything more.

"What the hell am I doing here?" Pam mused, gathering her purse and opening the door.

"I told you I was buying," Jimmy pointed out as he exited the back seat. "And Suki said she didn't mind babysitting."

The brother and sister looked at each other from across the roof of the car. "Oh yeah," Pam grinned. "Well, then. Jack's right, whiskey to be drank."

Jimmy rolled his eyes. "We couldn't have gone to a place in town? Why the hell are we drinking in a hole in the middle of what is probably a sheep pasture?"

"Look at it this way – this is local, Jimmy. The drinks are free pour and less likely to be watered down."

He squinted at the flickering coach lamps that hung on either side of the door and then made a face at the fogged up windows. "Do you think they take Amex?"

Pam laughed again and pushed open the door, only to be swept up in a gust of hot air that smelled of whiskey and barnyards and sawdust. Jimmy laughed at the grimace on her face. "You _sure_ you don't want to go into town?"

It was a like sauna in the bar. She hadn't even sat for five minutes before she'd pulled off her sweater, and now sat in a snug black t-shirt, much to the other patrons' delight. Jack was already seated at the bar, leaning up on his stool and chatting up the petite girl who was busy pouring whiskey and beer.

"Ye must be Jackie's sister," the bartender deduced as she plunked a shot of whiskey and glass of Guinness in front of Pam.

Pam looked up from stashing the car keys in her purse and visibly started. The girl behind the bar bore an eerie resemblance to Wren, in a sense that she was small, compact, with a smattering of freckles on the pale skin of her face. But her hair was black, and her eyes almost gold, and Pam shook herself from her memories and raised an eyebrow.

"Jackie?" She repeated sceptically. She glanced at her younger brother. "He must really like you if he lets you call him that. _I'm_ not even allowed to call him that."

The bartender smiled. "I'm Bryn. Welcome to _Madra Dubh_."

Pam took the hand that the girl held out and shook it. "Pam Leary."

Bryn winked and slid a second beer and whiskey shot over to Jimmy. "I thought dat Jackie musta had a sister. No way he could come up wit' da tings he says if he was raised in a houseful o'boys. I would know. I'm da only girl of six." She winked at Jimmy. "Hiya, handsome. Looks like da Leary genes are good ones. Nice lookin' lot."

Jimmy, who had been sourly inspecting the gouged bar top and the spots on the glasses, now grinned roguishly and leaned onto the bar. Pam rolled her eyes and picked up her glass of Guinness, leaving the whiskey untouched.

"That's top shelf, on tha house as it were," Bryn said as she passed, pointing to the shot of whiskey.

Pam felt her cheeks warm at the slight scold. "Oh, I had enough last night."

Bryn planted her hands on her hips and smirked. "Aye, but 'ave ye 'ad any t'day?"

"No," Pam said slowly.

"Then drink up, lass. Here, I'll do one wit ya." She poured a second shot and sat it on the bar next to Pam's. "On tree, aye? One," Bryn started, curling her fingers around the glass.

Pam chuffed a small sigh, knowing that she was beaten. She picked up her own glass. "_Dha_," she continued.

Bryn's eyes lit up. "Oh, yer takin' the piss, aren't ya? _Tri_!"

Pam winced as the whiskey splashed the back of her throat and she clutched the glass of Guinness, chasing the hard liquor with it. Her empty shot glass was refilled almost immediately.

"An one fer yer Da, God rest his soul." Bryn raised her glass, and the Leary siblings followed suit.

* * *

"It's a little slow this evenin', lass," Jack purred a few hours later as he leaned over the bar to reach for the whiskey once more.

Bryn dove and smacked the bottle from Jack's hand with a sharp scold and a glare before filling his glass once more and setting the bottle well out of his reach. "Dere's a fight down in Toughers," she replied. "The industrial estate just west on R445."

"A fight?" Jack and Jimmy chorused in union.

Pam groaned and rolled her eyes before lifting her third glass of Guinness. The whiskey had done her some good, but she wasn't sure how much longer she could stay awake. The time change was still dogging her, and she felt bad for leaving Shayne alone their first night in Ireland. She checked her watch – it was half nine already.

"Aye, they got The Wolf fightin' Kevin McGee," Bryn nodded as she made change for a man waiting at the bar.

"It's fixin' ta be a right bloody time," the man replied. "The Wolf hasn't lost a fight since he started."

The man's friend joined him, shrugging into his coat. "Keep it down, Farley, aye? They ain't local, they're tourists. They open their gums an' we'll have tha coppers down on us in no time, breakin' tha whole ting up."

The first man waved off his friend's protests, and Jack stood proudly. "I'll have ya know dat we are _very_ local. We're Danny Leary's kids."

Both men paused and drew the sign of the cross over their chests and then nodded gravely. "Aye, lad, aye, we heard tell you lot was comin' in. Shame about yer da, he was a fine gentleman. God rest his soul." The first man nodded to Jimmy and Jack in turn, and took Pam's hand and briefly held it before he turned and left.

"Aye, tha same goes fer me. Look, if ya need directions, we're headin' down ta Toughers now. Ya can follw if ya like."

Jack was already digging his wallet out, pressing bills into Bryn's hand with a promise of returning sometime later – quite later – and then he picked up his jacket. He swung an arm over Jimmy's shoulders and then leaned against Pam. "C'mon, then." He pulled his older siblings to the door. "There'll be blood t'night!" he crowed in farewell.

* * *

"I can't believe you talked me into coming here," Pam groused as she was shuffled into the large warehouse of a former feedlot.

Jack threw her a grin and laughed before accepting a flask of something thrust at him by another random patron. "I didn't do so much talkin' as tha whiskey did," he gasped after a gulp from the flask. He held it out to Pam with a lopsided grin.

"Shut up," Pam replied, elbowing her younger brother for good measure and taking a slug of whiskey before passing it along to Jimmy. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and took a deep breath, catching the scent of old – and new – blood, of sawdust, and stale whiskey and beer.

"Keep it down," Jimmy added, casting his dark gaze about, wary of the type of place they were in. Trust Jack Leary to find the only illegal boxing match in the county and drag his siblings to it, lock, stock, and key. He sighed and waved off the offer of whiskey that came from his sister.

Jack rolled his eyes at his older siblings and shrugged his shoulder. "C'mon. We best get in – I want to sit as close as possible."

* * *

In the backside of the warehouse, in the old staff locker rooms that now served as the fighters' quarters, Connor sat hunched on a wooden bench, watching as Murphy paced back and forth. Smoke streamed from the darker brother's nostrils, and he spun on his heel and stalked back across the space between lockers, muttering to himself.

"Murph, settle tha fuck down," Connor sighed, standing and rolling his right shoulder. It had stiffened up in the cold on the walk over and he was waiting for the water on the small camp stove to boil so that he could put together a makeshift compress. He folded a towel and tucked it into the bottom of a steel bucket, and checked the progress on the stove. "I've fought him b'fore. Ain't nothin' different."

"An' I'm tellin' ya, something's not right," Murphy countered. He turned and looked at his brother, his tilted blue eyes narrowed in the dim light cast by the bare bulb in the ceiling. "This isn't goin' ta end well. I feel it…"

"Christ above, don't say ya feel it in yer bones; ya sound enough like Ma as it is."

"Aye, yea, Lord's fuckin' name," Murphy replied, and the twins paused and hastily drew the cross and muttered a quick Hail Mary. When they were finished, Murphy finished his cigarette and immediately lit a new one, and dragged on it heavily. "Ya can't keep doin' this, Connor," he said at last, naming his fears and his doubts in one sentence.

Connor cast Murphy a quick glare from over his shoulder, and then upended boiling water over the towel in the bucket. Steam rose around him and he inhaled deeply. It smelled like sweat. "Did Da put ya up ta this?" he asked calmly. Beneath the surface, however, his blood was turning hot. Maybe it was the upcoming fight, maybe it was his younger brother telling him what he could and couldn't do, but Connor would not back down this evening.

"No, Da didn't fuckin' put me up ta this, ya fuckin' jackass." Murphy's hand came down on Connor's good shoulder and he pulled him around to face him. "Listen ta me, Conn, aye? M'yer brother. M'yer goddamn _twin_." He caught Connor's blue gaze, so like his own, and held it for breathless seconds until he saw the spark of recognition from somewhere deep in Connor. "_Don't_ be reckless t'night, aye?"

Connor was usually unruffled by Murphy's broodiness, by his darker half's sudden ability to just _feel_ things out. Would have done him a world of good back in Boston. Still, he nodded, more or less to get Murphy to stop spouting his bad omen bullshit than to actually agree with him. He wouldn't admit that Murphy was right – that something _was_ off about the evening. The mood had turned as quickly as the tide, suddenly, and a feeling of something achingly familiar had washed over Connor not ten minutes earlier. It had made his skin turn cold.

Murphy made a face, not fully convinced that Connor was actually listening, but he wasn't about to push his luck. These days, Connor was more likely to blow up at anything and any_one_, including his twin. Instead, Murphy merely nodded and took the steaming towel from Connor's hands, and laid it on the affected shoulder. He held it in place with one hand while the other cupped the back of Connor's neck, steadying them both. With a reserved sigh, Murphy leaned down, pressing his forehead against Connor's, and silently, together, they prayed.

* * *

"Who's fighting tonight?" Jimmy asked as he sank down on Pam's left side.

Pam shrugged. "Don't know. Illegal boxing matches don't seem to have programs," she muttered, shooting Jack a pointed look. She was uneasy, and for good reason. Her last experience with an illegal boxing match, though after the fact, had resulted in bullet holes and the scent of burning flesh permeating the space so much that a year later, when she'd brought Matt home for the first time, he'd commented on it.

Jack ignored the dig from his sister, knowing that despite her comments, she was actually intrigued by the turn of events – he could tell by the gleam in her eye. "Um, some local named Connor McLeod or something. He's up against Kevin McGee."

"Connor _McLeod_," Pam repeated, her heart stuttering at the eerie similarities, "is the guy from _Highlander_." Beside her, Jimmy snorted.

"That guy at Bryn's said something about 'The Wolf'. I'm guessing that's McLeod. Will you two stay here for a minute? I have to see a guy about a bet." Jack rose and wove through the crowd, and soon he was swallowed by the milling men and women that circled the ring like hungry sharks.

"Jesus, he's not even hiding it, is he?" Jimmy uttered, craning his neck as he tried in vain to keep an eye on his little brother.

Pam bristled once more. She was _not_ going to sit idly by while her youngest brother dug himself into an early grave. She'd seen first hand what gambling did, what it was capable of. Nate Abernathy was proof enough. "I'll get him," she said as she stood.

Jimmy nodded, standing too. "I'll go this way. You go the other way. Together, we should be able to cut him off before he gets into too much trouble."

* * *

Connor ducked out of the locker room and barreled through the crowd, following the broad set of Murphy's shoulders. He kept his vision straight; the hood of his sweatshirt hid him from the prying eyes as he made his way to the ring. The crowd was epic that night, and they seemed louder…rowdier…than he could remember. Despite the path that automatically opened up before he and his brother, he was still treated to hard fists to his shoulder, slaps on the back, and shoves, and shouts of encouragement and for blood rang in his ears. Murphy looked back once with a lifted brow, but said nothing, and shoved the spectators aside as they came to the ring.

There was no need to announce the fight; it wasn't that type of thing. It wasn't like Boston, when Gin Rickey had fought Tommy the Natural. Hell, he'd been adamant about the whole knuckler thing from the beginning, but this was nothing like laying a beating for Colm Gareghty. This wasn't about money. It was about blood, and his fists and his fury. Da had been wrong; the feelings hadn't gone away, hadn't mellowed or faded in the least. They'd boiled and distilled, and worked through his veins until he could feel it in his fingertips.

Murphy held the ropes apart for him, and Connor bound up the rough hewn steps and ducked into the ring. Now, the crowd roared again, as their returning working-class-hero entered the fray. He paced a few times and then finally pulled his sweatshirt off and tossed it to Murphy, and then took a seat on the low stool and stared across to the other corner where Kevin McGee sat.

The last time they'd fought, it had been well matched. McGee was seven years younger than Connor, and he'd been full of piss and vinegar, but Connor was seasoned and hardened after his stint in Boston and the fights that had led up to that first time. They'd gone eight rounds before Connor finally took pity on the kid and opted not to use his boyish face as a speed bag. He let loose his famous right hook, followed by a brutal uppercut, and the kid had staggered back against the ropes, still conscious enough to keep going, but smart enough to call the fight.

Connor had made a lot of money that night.

Now, McGee was glaring at him, his once perfect nose permanently crooked from the last meeting with Connor's right hand. His dark eyes were narrowed as he looked for any crack he could find in Connor's armor. He wouldn't admit it to the throng of cousins that surrounded him, but McGee was nervous about the fight. The pain he'd suffered from his last bout with The Wolf was still fresh, though it had been three months prior. More than his body had suffered – his pride had, too. Connor MacManus was rumored to be more in his whiskey than his fights, and McGee had counted too heavily on that. He never thought that the drink would be a driving factor. He waved away the bottle that Frankie held to him and continued to gaze back at Connor's unwavering stare.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: I keep forgetting my standard disclaimer. I don't own BDS, but imagine if I did! Pam Leary, her brothers, and anything you don't recognize are mine; all else is credited to Troy Duffy's genius and Flandus' general awesomeness._

* * *

Surrounded by the gruff brogue and smoke, Pam was chilled. After her brief, but close encounter with Colm Gareghty, she was certain she never wanted to be that deep in a scene like that ever again. Even though there was little possibility that there was any relation between the men here and those that she had blown up in a Sushi restaurant a thousand miles away, she was uneasy with the volume, the crowds, and the smell of whiskey and blood. Suddenly, the crowd seemed to surge, like a wave in the ocean, and she felt herself swept forward, towards the ring. Her heart thudded; the fight must have started, she reasoned, and she kept one eye on the crowd in hopes of finding Jack, while she was bolstered towards the battle that had begun.

The energy around her was scorching, and she could hear the muffled, thick thudding of flesh hitting flesh. She looked to the ring briefly and watched as a young man with strawberry blond hair hustled about the ring and feigned punches at the other fighter whose back was to her. He sported a rather large, though unfinished tattoo of the upper portion of Christ on the cross on his back, and it was like a piece of a puzzle falling into place. She heard shouting from a corner of the ring, a rough, rasping voice wrought with cussing and rapid Irish Gaelic. She looked and her heart leapt in her throat at the shock of dark hair, the unmistakable almond-shaped blue eyes.

"Murph?" she gasped out loud, though she knew she wouldn't be heard over the din. Her eyes skittered down to his bare arms, and sure enough, there was the tattoo of the Celtic cross on his forearm; there was the tattoo of the saint on his neck, _there_ was the tell-tale mark on his upper lip that made him seem that much more beautiful. But if that was Murphy…Her eyes snapped back to the ring, and the fighters turned in their dance, and now the redhead's back was to her and the other fighter…_Hail Mary, full of grace_, the other fighter was _Connor_.

She stumbled forward, her eyes glued to him, to the bulk of muscle packed on his frame. Gone was the lithe wire of his youth, replaced with hard muscles under bronze skin and black ink. His right fist shot out like a rocket, landing a beautiful jab in the kid's face, and as he stretched and reached for his target, the side of his jeans fell from one hip, and the clover tattoo with the letter 'P' stood out like a beacon. Her stomach dropped to her toes.

Pam was against the ring now, her hands planted on the mat, and so close she could see the dark scruff of too many days' growth beard on Connor's tired features. His eyes were cold, hard, and like nothing she'd ever seen on him before. Pushing herself along, she managed to get to his corner and clamber up onto the ropes, despite the lusty jeers and protests of the spectators around. She clutched at the neck of Murphy's sweater, and as she did so, the darker twin started, and swung around, a scowl on his face.

"Tha fuck…" he trailed off, the cigarette burning between his lips now hanging limply as he gaped at her. "Pam?"

A sharp crack sounded from the ring, and Murphy flinched, looking back quickly to the fight, as Pam hovered over his shoulder, still clinging to him. The tide of the fight had turned again, and now Connor's gaze sliced through her, no longer focused on his task. He stumbled forward as his face contorted with surprise. McGee stepped into Connor's space once more and this time delivered a quick one-two to the jaw and then the ribs.

* * *

Connor's vision exploded, and his ears rang as he felt his equilibrium tip. Doubled over, he gasped for breath and dared to raise his head, even as his hands came up in guard, but the vision over Murphy's shoulder had vanished. _She_ had vanished – had he merely been seeing things? The kid was all over him, suddenly, tragically. That one glimpse of his heart had given the kid the time needed to land a blow right on the button, and Connor winced as another blow lanced his ribs, and the pain blossomed outwards, hot and fierce. He tried to suck in a breath, but it felt like his lung had collapsed and he dropped to one knee, only to receive a second shot to the mouth, an underhand hook that laid him flat on his back.

His eyes closed as the crowd went ballistic, shouts and catcalls echoing through the space. He was deep under water now, sounds muffled, darkness around him, and his limbs were heavy, and ached something fierce. His heart was the worst of it, though. That one thought of Pam had manifested so clearly in his mind that he swore he had seen her there, perched behind Murphy, her gold and green eyes wide with horror and disbelief. He tasted blood in his mouth. His teeth felt loosened. Rattled. Somewhere, dimly, he heard counting, as the fight's referee counted down towards the end of the fight. The collected crowd spat insults and booed and hissed, thumping their fists on the mat as Connor fought to swim to the surface. He heard Murphy calling his name and dared to crack one eye open. His head lolled to one side and there, ringside, staring back at him from the bottom rope, was Pam.

He smiled dumbly as he watched her say his name. Christ in Heaven, she was even more beautiful than he remembered. Her hair was longer, too, her face leaner. He closed his eyes and swallowed with another smile. That was something he could take to sleep with him. Christ, he was so fucking tired all of a sudden. Someone was calling his name once more.

"Connor!"

Her voice made him gasp and he opened his eyes and blinked. Shit, she was still there – still _there_, in the flesh, standing there, ringside, in a warehouse outside of Coill Dubh, and his ribs were on fire.

* * *

Her fingertips curled into the heavy canvas of the mat, and as she scrambled forward and under the bottom rope, a strong arm wound about her hips and hauled her back down. Immediately, she clawed at the offending appendage, her eyes wild as she stared at Connor staring at her. His face – his poor, handsome, boyish face – was sporting faded bruises that she guessed were from earlier fights. The thought of him boxing made her rage and she snarled, kicking her legs out, suddenly wanting nothing more than to add to the myriad of sallow yellows, deep purples, and angry reds. The arm at her waist tightened, and suddenly Murphy's voice was hot in her ear.

"Ease up, girl, he's got this."

Pam swore and threw an elbow back into Murphy's solid flank. He grunted, and maybe his arm loosened, but he didn't let go.

"Fuck you, Murphy," she spat, her eyes still on Connor.

* * *

The referee continued his count while the McGee kid hopped on his toes, his eyes frantically going from Murphy at the ringside to Connor, laying on his back, dazedly staring at brunette with flashing eyes. Why wasn't he getting up? Had he really rung The Wolf's bell? McGee cracked his knuckles and watched closely.

Connor blinked slowly, and then his face opened, as if waking from a dream. He quickly rolled over to his hands and knees and the referee paused his counting, dropping beside Connor to check on his status. He was more than fine, more than he had ever been, more than he ever would be. He'd found her. In a sea of drunken strangers in a grubby warehouse southwest of Naas, in the middle of no-fucking-where Ireland, he'd found her, or she'd found him. Either way, it was his strength. He nodded once to the referee and rolled to his feet, all the hurt and ache and burn in his bones swept aside. The crowd roared with delight.

Pam looked furious as he cast another glance in her direction. Murphy was barely holding her back, his brother's face angry as he growled something to the brunette in his arms. He needed to finish this fight quickly – he couldn't care less about McGee or the outcome, and he was done staring at the kid's face. He wanted nothing more but to stare at her. The only way he was going to do that would be to put the kid down. He glanced back towards McGee, the fire now raging in his blood. Now he had reason. Now he had purpose.

* * *

"Godammit, Murphy, let me _go_!" Pam growled, still wiggling in his grasp.

"Lord's fuckin' name," he snapped back before finally relenting and setting her back on her feet. As expected, she surged forward again towards Connor and Murphy caught her elbow and pulled her back. "He'll finish it, girl, I promise you."

Pam whirled, a retort ready on her lips, but it died as she watched Jack dissolve from out of nowhere, his straight features drawn as he stared Murphy down. Pam opened her mouth, her head already shaking, trying to let her little brother know that it was okay, it wasn't anything to be upset about, but it was too late. Behind her, in the ring, there was the solid sound of fists hitting flesh, and the sagging _thud_ of a body hitting the mat. The crowd erupted just as Murphy turned and Jack's fist connected with his nose.

* * *

"I should have gone into nursing," Pam muttered as she leaned towards Murphy with towel filled with ice. "Here, hold this on your nose. Jack, let me see your knuckles."

The fight in the ring had ended seconds before the fight ringside had been broken up, though both Jack and Murphy got their blows in. Currently, the two men were seated on a long wooden bench in the locker room while Connor watched from where he leaned against the counter, insistent that his brother be taken care of first. Pam was thankful. She didn't think she get within two feet of Connor without wanting to kick him and kiss him at once.

Connor snorted at her with a fond grin. It was true – she'd patched both of the twins up on a few occasions. She lifted her eyes from Jack's scraped knuckles and glanced at Connor.

Jack cleared his throat, seeing his sister's demeanor change as she gazed at the sandy-haired Irishman. "So," he began. "How exactly do you all know each other?"

"These two are brothers," Pam murmured, nodding to the vicinity where Connor sat and then looking to Murphy. "Connor and Murphy MacManus. We…met in Boston."

Jimmy had remained silent up until that point. He hadn't liked the way the darker brother had grabbed his sister with such familiarity, but it was the fairer of the pair that made him wary. Pam hadn't even looked at her late husband the way she looked at Connor MacManus.

"You two were sleeping together," Jimmy said bluntly, pushing off the wall where he'd been leaning.

"Jesus, Jimmy," Pam snapped, glaring at her older brother.

"Lord's name," Murphy muttered.

"Tha fuck business is it of yers?" Connor growled, standing straighter to take a step towards Jimmy.

Jack merely chuckled from where he sat next to Murphy.

"She's my fuckin' sister," Jimmy pointed out.

"Jimmy, shut the fuck up," Pam retorted before turning back to Jack's knuckles. She finished wiping the blood from them and sat back with a sigh. Finally, she looked to Connor with reservation. "Can you guys give us a moment?"

Jimmy looked to Murphy and Jack, who shrugged and nodded, and then he turned his dark gaze to Connor once more. He sneered. "I'm on to you, Irish. Don't fuckin' lay a hand on me sister, right?"

Connor smirked and flipped Jimmy the bird, but Pam stood between them before anything else could transpire. "Jimmy, I'm serious. He's harmless, really." She ignored the chuckle from Connor and waved Jimmy to the door. "I'll be all right. Just go and make sure Jack and Murphy don't start fighting again."

Reluctantly, Jimmy made his way to the door, and it shut behind him, leaving Pam alone with Connor. She tossed aside the cloth she'd used on Jack and picked up a new one, twisting it in her hands. "Sit down," she nodded towards the bench.

Connor chuckled again and ran a hand over his hair. "I haven't seen ya fer six years, lass. Can a fella get a proper hello?"

"Sit down before I _make_ you sit down," she seethed, raising an eyebrow in warning.

With a huff, Connor slunk to the bench and sat, curling his fingers over the edge of the wood on either side of his thighs. He tilted his face up to the light and Pam winced with a hiss before she dunked the fresh cloth into clean water. She wiped away the residual blood first, avoiding the cuts and split skin over his eye, and swollen bottom lip.

"D'ya remember tha last time ya did this fer me?" Connor murmured, ignoring the sting of her touch.

"Aye," Pam answered softly. "The night Wren…" she broke off with a frown and her hand hesitated. "The night of Yakavetta's." She swallowed thickly and dropped the cloth, and pushed a shaking hand through his hair, swiping the damp strands back from his forehead. "Pretty sure I said that would be the last time I'd be doing it for ya, too." She forced a smile, not sure what she should be feeling at the time.

Connor reached up and caught her hand in his, lacing their fingers together. He pulled her forward and pressed her knuckles to his mouth. "Yer tha only woman I ever want healin' me hurts." He held her hand up and turned it over, smiling faintly at the scar that ran over the pad of her left thumb. "An ya know I want ta be tha one ta fix yers."

She pulled her hand free and shook the urge to slap him all over again. Instead, she sank to the bench beside Connor with a sigh of frustration. "Six years, Connor. I haven't seen ya or heard from ya fer _six years_." She shook her head and raked her fingers through her hair. "I don't even…I mean how could you…" She bit her lip and looked at the floor. "A lot has happened since then."

Connor twisted on the wooden seat and pulled Pam's chin up between his thumb and forefinger so that she was looking at him. "I wanted ta call…or ta write…but it didn't seem…"

Pam nodded ruefully. "Oh, I get it, Connor. I do." She stood again and dropped the cloth into the bucket absently before wiping her hands on her thighs. "I should go."

Connor laughed tightly. "Ya just got here – haven't even said 'hello'." He stood from the bench and moved towards her.

Pam paced out of his reach and moved to the door. She looked back at Connor long and hard. "I don't know if I want to."

Christ, he'd never heard her sound so cold. Even when she'd kicked him to the curb back in Boston, back in the thick of things, she'd been heated, alive, passionate. Now, she was closed off. It bothered Connor, and he scowled as he watched her turn and leave the locker room. Something had happened to Pam in the years he'd been gone. Something that affected her deeply; and call him selfish, but he couldn't help but think he could have prevented it if he'd stayed.

He launched into action, crossing the rough concrete floor of the room, hell bent on going after her, but when he exited the room and dashed into the hallway, she'd vanished. In fact, they all had – her brothers, Jimmy and Jack, and even Murphy. He cursed softly and turned back to the locker room, hurriedly stuffing his belongings into his pack and shrugging into his coat before pulling on his boots. He had to catch up to her. He couldn't risk letting her slip through his fingers a second time.

* * *

"Pam," Murphy called as he followed her hasty steps towards the car lot.

"I don't want to heart it, Murph," she growled over her shoulder. Jimmy and Jack were already at the car. The last thing she wanted was to ride back to Uncle Seamus' with the pair. Jack would be silently, unnervingly so, but Jimmy would jump down her throat as soon as the doors were shut, bombarding her with questions she didn't want to answer. She shoved the heavy doors open and stepped into the cool, damp night.

She felt a strong hand gently wrap around her elbow and pull her to a halt in the gravel.

"Well I'm gonna say it anyway, aye?" Murphy gently turned her around and settled his hands on her shoulders, not giving her any chance of dodging him. "Ya know we couldn't tell ya where we were goin'. It wasn't safe."

Pam laughed sadly, tears already forming in her eyes. She blinked them away as she turned her face sideways, Murphy's gaze too intense. "It was _never_ safe, jackass," she sighed. "With either of you. I should have known the day you walked into my store that the pair of you were nothing but trouble. Hell, I think I did know and I didn't care to admit it."

Murphy sighed and tilted his head, his gaze softening as he gathered Pam closer. "It nearly killed him, Pam. Leavin' you? He's not the same man he was back in Boston."

Murphy's admission sent a chill through Pam's bones and she nodded gravely. "I can see that." She made a weak gesture to the warehouse. "What's this about?"

Murphy shrugged. "Chasin' demons. Pushing away anything that can hurt him again, I guess. But you're here now an'…"

Pam shook her head and drew away from Murphy's warmth and held the dark-haired man at arm's length. "I'm not here to fix him, Murphy. I never thought in a million years I'd see him again and now it's just not good timing." She frowned and looked Murphy in the eye.

"What _are_ ya doin' here, girl?"

"I'm here to bury my father."

Murphy winced and nodded. "M'sorry fer yer loss."

Pam squeezed her eyes shut. Those words, spoken by Murphy (and longed for from Connor) would have been a bolster four years ago when she'd lost Matt. Hell, if Connor had stayed, Pam wasn't even certain she'd have met Matt, and that would have meant no Shayne. Her mind started working overtime in the dark, damp cool of the car lot and her heart raced as memories, good and bad and bittersweet, began to topple on one another. She nodded through tears at Murphy's condolences and then stepped back, letting her hands fall from his forearms. "I hafta go."

"Where are ya stayin?"

Pam offered up a weak smile. "At me Uncle Seamus'," she half-grinned, remembering a time when she and Murphy had struggled to find common ground.

Murphy's eyes brightened even in the shadows. "Seamus Leary?" He didn't wait for Pam's reply, merely laughed softly. "Aye, don't know how I missed that connection b'fer now. We know the place. It's right over the col from the cabin." He paused and gauged Pam's expression. "M'not sayin' ya hafta talk ta him right away, aye? But he's goin' ta come fer ya, make no mistake there. He lost ya once, girl, an' not by his own choice. He won't do it again."

Pam nodded stiffly. "I figured as much the second I saw him."

Murphy's heart warmed at the words. She may put on a good front, but when it came down to it, Pam's feelings for Connor still ran deep despite the heartache and obstacles she had obviously come upon in the past years.

"I've missed ya, Pam," Murphy admitted easily. He'd missed her for Connor and for himself. She'd always been the most level-headed of the four of them, and as straight forward as Connor.

Pam all but threw herself back against Murphy, choking on a breath as his arms came about her tightly. "I missed you, too, Murph." She let him hold her steady and with a deep breath she lifted her head and held Murphy's face, cringing at the swollen lip and cut above his eyebrow.

Jack had only gotten a few punches in, not enough to do any real damage. She peered closely at the dark twin. "Hail Mary, Murphy, tell me you're not fighting too," she pleaded.

Murphy cleared his throat and cast his glance sideways for a spell, weighing his words. "M'not. Me an' Conn…"

Pam stiffened. She knew the twins fought – hell, she had her own brothers; it was programmed, she figured, for brothers to fight – but she'd never seen Connor's fists glance Murphy's face, and the welt under his eye made her stomach curl and turn cold. Her mouth pressed into a firm line. "So he's takin' ta laying a beating on his own brother?" She could hear her voice rising with each word.

"It's not like that Pam," Murphy rushed to explain. Sure, there was plenty still left unsaid between Connor and Murphy, but the fight – at least the physical side of it – had blown over. He sighed as Pam's green eyes cut to the warehouse.

"Pam?" Jack's voice cut through her thoughts and she turned at the sound of his shoes on the gravel as he trudged towards her. The youngest Leary eyed Murphy once more and then looked at his sister. "It's late. Shayne might be wonderin' where ya are."

Pam sobered at the mention of her daughter, and she looked to Murphy who narrowed his eyes in question. _Fuck it_, she thought. _Let him think there's someone else in the picture._ With a name like her daughter's and no context, people got confused all the time. "Yeah," Pam nodded. "I'll be right there, Jack."

Jack hesitated, looking between his sister and the dark-haired MacManus brother, and then retreated back to the car.

For several seconds afterwards, Pam and Murphy merely stared at one another – he with a million questions, and she with a guarded heart. "I hafta go," she muttered once more. Her head was beginning to ache. Her heart was already suffering.

Murphy nodded shortly, licking his lips. "Okay. Just…don't leave, aye? Don't leave before ya talk ta him."

She bit her lips and willed the tears not to fall. "M'not making any promises, Murphy." She needed to leave, to get away from him, and from Connor. She'd spent six years wondering 'what if' and now, faced with them, all she wanted to do was run away. She didn't even afford Murphy a farewell and merely trudged back towards the car where her brothers were waiting.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N This has been a very long time coming. Between moving and shoddy internet providers and writer's block, I managed to put this up when I thought that all was lost and I'd never be able get this story moving again. Then I had an epiphany. My brain went places and this was the result._

_Always thanks to those who review, favourite, subscribe, and/or pm. Extra special thanks and sushi bombs to incog_ninja whose Walking Dead Fic 'Hold On' is kicking my ass. Hugs and ass grabs to Valerie E Mackin, siarh, pitbullsrok, dede324, aislingisobel, and Kapten Kramp who make me laugh and cry and flail and feel through everything they say, tweet, write…I love mah bitches._

_I own everything not created by Troy Duffy. If it doesn't show up in BDS or ASD, then it's mine, but either way, I'm not making money off of it. Unbeta'd as always. All mistakes and liberties are mine._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

Farley MacGuire took the flask of whiskey he'd been offered, though he'd had his share at _Madra Dubh_ before he'd come to the match. After seeing the McGee kid flattened by The Wolf once again, he was in the mood to celebrate. The win had made his pockets that much heavier and he was feeling no pain as he took a long draw of whiskey and then thrust the flask at his companion, Ryan O'Shea.

"Did ya see that Leary girl circling the ring?" Farley muttered as he swayed where he stood.

"Aye," O'Shea rasped after swallowing his mouthful of liquor. He rubbed at his chin and peered down the hall towards The Wolf's locker room. "Tink she knows dem both, den?"

Farley shrugged and snatched the flask back, leaning against the wall. "Better question is tink McGee knows dat all three are back on green soil?" He winked and hummed to himself.

"All three what?" A low voice muttered.

Farley and O'Shea both turned to see Frankie McGee filter into the hallway, Marcus in tow. Kevin was still holed up in his own locker room while the medic (who was actually a retired veterinarian) checked his vitals.

Frankie eyed the drunken pair and then snapped up the flask from Farley, and took a long swig. After he swallowed, he continued. "I'll ask again: all three what?" He looked from one man to the other.

O'Shea sputtered and raised his hands. "S'nothin', Frankie, no need ta get wound up, aye?"

Frankie smiled tightly and flicked a glance towards Marcus that said to stick close by. He then turned to Farley. "I'll get wound up as I please, ya drunken fuck. Now, I know yer talkin' bout me because I heard me name. So quit bein' a tosser an' talk, Farley. M'not in tha mood fer games t'night."

Farley blinked, Frankie's rough voice making him a little more alert. "It's nothin', I swear – I mean, dey don't even know what's left fer dem, there's no way they could…"

Frankie growled and grabbed Farley's collar, shoving the man up against the wall with a sneer. "Quit yer fuckin' snivellin' an talk, old man."

Farley sputtered and nodded. "Tha woman – tha one that tried ta storm tha mat?"

Frankie narrowed his eyes. He had seen her – she couldn't have been missed by anyone watching the fight, what with the way she had fought Murphy MacManus' hold and the way Connor had looked at her. "Who is she?"

Farley swallowed at the chilling tone from Frankie and sighed. "She's Danny Leary's daughter. An' she's here wit' her two brothers."

Frankie's eyes narrowed more as he processed the information, and slowly his fingers unfurled from Farley's lapel. "I'll be a fucked bunny," he purred as a slow smile crept across his lips. He let go of Farley and turned to his cousin Marcus. "Tha Leary Siblings are back in Ireland."

* * *

Noah MacManus turned as the front door of the cabin burst open and Connor stomped inside. His voice was raised, cursing a blue streak at his brother, who followed closely at his heels, spouting his defence.

"For fuck's sake, Murph, ya couldn't make her wait one Goddamn minute?"

Noah flinched at the Lord's name but said nothing.

"Ah, fuck you, Connor! What was I supposed ta do? Hold her down? Tie her to tha truck?" He rubbed at a split on the bridge of his nose. "I wasn't in tha mood ta have me face rearranged thrice in one _day_."

Connor turned then and shoved Murphy back into the door as it slammed shut. "I might disappoint ya, regardless," Connor growled.

"Connor," Noah finally stepped in, placing his hand on his son's shoulder in warning. "That's enough."

Connor paused and afforded his father a glance before shrugging out of his grip and stomping into the kitchen.

Noah swung his glance to Murphy, peering at his younger son's bruised face. "Lord in Heaven, boy, don't tell me yer fightin' too," he muttered.

Murphy afforded his father a disbelieving glance. "It's nothin'," he replied. Then he sighed and sagged on the couch. "Ah, Jesus Christ, Da…"

"Lord's name," Noah warned, taking a seat across from his son.

Murphy nodded and drew the sign of the cross before muttering, "Hail Mary, n'all that."

"What happened?"

"Pam Leary happened." No sense in beating around the bush.

Noah paused with Murphy's answer and processed it. He knew who his son was talking about – he'd met the girl twice while they had still been in Boston. He sat back and drew a hesitant breath. "Of course," he nodded. He raised an eyebrow at Murphy. "Safe ta say, then, that the boys are back as well?" His eyes lingered pointedly on Murphy's bruises.

Murphy cocked his head and sat forward, flicking his eyes to the kitchen where he could hear Connor rummaging through the cupboards, before leaning in to his father. In his most hushed tone, he said, "What the hell is that suppose ta mean?"

Noah grunted and stood, pacing to the mantle over the fireplace to pick up his pipe. After packing tobacco into it, he lit it, and drew a few puffs before glancing back to Murphy. "Danny Leary's death impacted a lot of folks, son. When I met Pamela all those years ago, I knew, without a doubt, she was Danny's daughter."

Murphy narrowed his eyes and stood. "What are ya on about, Da? What d'ya mean, ya knew she was Danny's daughter? Who tha fuck is Danny?"

Noah nodded. "It seems strange ta give ya a lesson in this, boy, seein' as how ya were right in tha thick of it in Boston. Colm Gareghty was not tha rightful heir to tha throne of the Boston Choir of Black Irish. He shot an' killed his older brother Fergus. His younger brother, Liam, disappeared. Hasn't been heard from in some time."

Murphy's eyes flashed recognition at Liam's name; he was their arms dealer back when it all started. He waited for his father to continue.

"There is tha New York Choir, and tha Chicago Choir, one in Seattle, and another in LA, but the Botson Choir was tha biggest after Dublin. Dublin is tha hub, y'see. Tha heart of the Black Irish. It's always been one of two families at tha head here in Ireland. A Leary, or a McGee."

Murphy sucked a sharp breath at the McGee name.

Noah drew on his pipe again. "When Danny Leary had children, he sent them to America for school. They were kept out of tha books, out of tha meetings, out of everything. Everyone knows about them; they know nothing for themselves." Noah suddenly looked past Murphy as Connor filled the doorway that led to the kitchen. "So, Danny Leary's passing has brought the three home: James, Pamela, and Jack. The three McGee boys, Frankie, Marcus, and Kevin, are on the other side of this war – and it will be a war, boys." Noah took another breath and glanced from Connor, to Murphy, and then back to Connor. "The throne – _an ríchathaoir_ – to tha Dublin Choir of Black Irish is now open."

* * *

Pam drove the pitchfork into another load of damp straw and manure, and then hefted it out into the wheelbarrow. She hadn't mucked out stalls in years, but after the night she'd been through, she needed hard, physical labour to take her emotions out on. She couldn't believe it – after six years without him, Connor MacManus had come back into her life swinging his fists. He'd changed too, and she wasn't so sure how exactly to handle this new man. There was new ink, new muscles, new bruises, cuts, scrapes, and scars. The only thing that hadn't changed was the way he said her name and the way he looked at her like it was the first time he'd ever seen her. He always looked at her like that.

And she hadn't been the only one to notice – she almost died when Jimmy pointed out that she and Connor had been sleeping together. Christ, she had barely mentioned Connor to anyone these last six years, only really referring to him as someone she went out with a few times. Jimmy had seen right through that, and just as she'd predicted, he hurled questions at her that she wasn't prepared to answer. She'd given him half answers, mostly one worded, and once they were safely parked in Seamus' car port, Jimmy left the vehicle in a huff, and Jack could only offer a sympathetic smile.

Matt had never looked at her like the way Connor MacManus did. At least, she had never felt that way when Matt looked at her. She realized it as soon as she saw Connor the previous night.

"Fuck," she muttered.

"Mom, you swore."

Pam gasped and her eyes flew open. Glancing out of the stall she was greeted with Shayne, dressed in jeans and new Dubarry boots. Pam tilted her head and gave her daughter an exasperated stare. "Those are pretty fancy boots, there, Shayne."

Shayne twirled in the dust and smiled. "Aunt Maggie got them for me!"

"Yer Aunt Maggie is spoiling you," Pam grumbled, leaning the pitchfork against the wall and moving from the stall. She took up Shayne's hand and they wandered down the alley, glancing at the horses. "Is Uncle Seamus taking you riding today?"

"Yep," Shayne nodded enthusiastically. She turned to her mother. "You should come! Oh, please, please, please! It'll be so much fun, mom! Look."Shayne pulled on her mom's hand, dragging her down the alleys and pointing out all the horses and reading the names chalked on the plaques that hung on the gates of each stable. She stopped at one marked 'Murphy' and pointed.

"This one's a Shire horse," Shayne announced matter-of-factly. "His name's Murphy. He's really tall and dark brown and Uncle Seamus says he's shy. But I don't think so." She turned and clucked her tongue and called out to the horse, and sure enough, an enormous dark mahogany head appeared, velvet nostrils flared and sniffing.

Pam couldn't suppress the giggle that bubbled out of her at the sight of the slightly bashful horse, aptly named (in her mind, anyway) Murphy. The horse was definitely tall, at least seventeen hands at the withers, if not more, and he eyed Pam for a moment before turning his attentions to Shayne's outstretched palm, and the carrot held there.

"Eh, looks like ye found young Murphy," Seamus called as he came down the alley. "Wasn't sure of him at first, a little shy, and quite stubborn. But he came around after a while, after we learned to trust one another." He smiled fondly at the animal and rubbed it between the ears. "What do you think, Shayne, you want to take him out today?"

"Seamus, he's huge," Pam cut in, despite her daughter's saucer eyes. "I don't think…"

"She'll be fine," Seamus cut off.

"I'll be fine," Shayne insisted at the same time.

"Why do I think you had this planned before I even woke up this morning?" Pam asked as she stood back and Seamus flipped the latch to the stall.

"Murphy's a good lad, aren't ya, boyo?" Seamus crooned as he slipped at bridle over the horse's head. He attached a lead and handed it off to Shayne. "Can you take him out to the block, lass?"

Shayne nodded, and led the giant horse out of the stall. She walked slowly, talking softly with the animal, casting a glance backwards over her shoulder every now and then, as if the horse might take off without her knowing.

Seamus chuckled and motioned to Pam. "Come with me. I think I got the perfect horse for ya."

* * *

_An Irish Translation:_

_an ríchathaoir: the throne_


	6. Chapter 6

He put Pam on another Shire horse, this one just as tall as Murphy, with a lighter coloured coat and the name 'Loner'. Pam had arched an eyebrow at the name and Seamus laughed, stating that the previous owner named him that. Seamus chose an Irish hunter, and they met Shayne at the mounting block. The women waited there as Seamus carried out saddles one by one. Pam half-listened as Seamus helped Shayne with the ins and outs of the saddle, but Pam had done this several times and got the go-ahead nod from her uncle when she was done. Soon, the three were mounted up and walking across the paddock to the north gate.

The ride to Naas was short, and they took the same way Pam had gone in the car the prior day. It had rained sometime before dawn and so the hoof beats of the horses was muffled. Cars roared by, and some drivers punched their horn in greeting to Seamus, who waved in return. Going by horseback wasn't a completely lost art in this part of the country, but it wasn't seen much outside of festival days and holidays. Shayne enjoyed the novelty of it, chattering away and pointing things out as she twisted about in her saddle. Pam winced once or twice as Shayne's attention seemed to wane from paying attention where Murphy was trodding, but the giant horse seemed at ease, and loftily stepped his way along a path that he seemed to know well.

Coming down the centre street of Naas, they pulled their horses to a halt at the corner of Main and Dory. Pam and Shayne waited as Seamus slipped from his horse and tied the three off to the bike racks, and then helped them each in turn. He said a few warm words to the men seated under the store's awning, and cast a quick glance backwards. He tried to hide a sudden frown, and quickly ushered Shayne and Pam into the store. Swinging past the front desk, he thumped the wood and nodded as an older man popped his head out of the office and nodded.

"Mornin', Abel," Seamus offered. He shot another quick look to his niece and grand niece, and then leaned on the counter. His next words were in rapid Gaelic, and Pam listened in, pretending to be none the wiser of the language and busying herself with the buttons on Shayne's coat.

"_McGee boys are across the road at MacCauly's. You'll give us a heads up if they come in, aye?"_

Abel looked from Seamus to the tawny haired woman, and the black haired girl, and turned his clear aqua eyes back to Seamus. "_This be Danny's girl, then? An' the little raven's-wing a princess?_"

Seamus nodded. "_Aye."_

Abel nodded as well and stood straight. He then switched to English and smiled broadly. "Hallo, ladies! Welcome ta Naas." His attention fixed on Pam for a spell. "I'm sorry fer yer loss, lass. Danny Leary will be missed in these parts."

Pam nodded slowly, shooting Seamus a sidelong gaze. "Aye, that's what I understand. Thank you for tha condolences. I'm Pam. This is Shayne." She put a protective hand on her daughter's shoulder.

"An honour ta meet ya," Abel said with a nod and a smile.

Seamus shook hands with Abel and then picked up a basket and handed it to Shayne. "Well then. Let's see what Aunt Maggie put on that list, aye?"

Shayne nodded, waving to Abel, and turned to converse with her great uncle, reaching into her pocket and pulling out the list Maggie had scribbled at breakfast that morning. Her daughter occupied, Pam smiled again at Abel and then stepped to the window that looked onto Main Street and narrowed her eyes. Sure enough, there were at least two men lingering on the corner, their attention fixed on the grocer. They looked familiar. She frowned and went over Seamus and Abel's conversation again. Had her uncle said McGee? She was certain that was the name of Connor's opponent from the night before.

"Yer brothers are here, too, then?" Abel's gruff, soft voice interrupted her thoughts and she blinked, glancing up behind the counter where the shopkeeper stood.

She nodded.

"Ya here fer long?"

Pam glanced back at the window, noticing that the two men whom she had been watching were suddenly making their way across the street. "I'm not sure. I have a business to get back to."

"Oh? Ya own a shop then?"

Pam frowned and looked back to Abel. "I suppose you could say that. A tattoo studio in Boston."

Abel winked. "What's a nice lass like you doin' puttin' ink on men like me, eh?" With a rakish grin he rolled up his sleeve and pointed to a Celtic dog inside his forearm.

"We all have to make a living," Pam muttered, looking to the window again. "I'm sorry, but did Seamus say something about 'the McGee boys'?"

Abel sputtered and stood straight, his face growing solemn. He shot a look to the window and then back to Pam. "Ya know Gaelic?"

"I picked it up, yeah," she answered.

Abel rubbed his chin. "Head to the back o' tha store, lass. I'll take care of the lot here. You can slip out the back, aye? Make sure that little_ banphrionsa _is safe."

The way Abel had used 'little princess' piqued her interest. She nodded quickly and muttered thanks. She turned back to the shop and headed down towards the dairy case where she could hear Shayne giggling.

Pam must have looked worried. She was, but she was curious, too. As she neared the pair, Seamus looked up and then craned his neck past her shoulder. "Something troublin' ya, lass?"

"You could say that," Pam muttered lowly. She looked to Shayne and pulled the full basket from her fingers before turning back to Seamus. "The McGee boys are making their way across the street. Abel told me ta tell ya so. Said we can leave through the back."

Seamus' eyes narrowed and he nodded his head smartly. "Aye. We should go."

"Seamus," Pam said, grabbing her uncle's sleeve as he passed. "What's going on?"

"Not here, lass. Not now. It's better that we avoid Frankie and Marcus and get back to the ranch."

"Is this about last night?" Pam wondered out loud. "I mean, the fight – the kid that lost against Connor was Kevin McGee."

"Connor?" Seamus repeated uncertainly.

Pam nodded. "Connor MacManus."

Seamus groaned and rubbed his eyes. "Aye, right, should have known a MacManus would somehow get himself involved." He stopped short and looked back to Pam. "I doubt it has to do with that, specifically, but if you have any sort of to do with MacManus, it's not going to help. Frankie and Connor have been at each other's throats fer years. C'mon, we've wasted enough time." His head swung up at the sound of Abel's raised voice, and he pushed Shayne towards the back of the store. "Get goin', Shayne. We're right behind ya."

Pam shot Seamus a warning glare. "_When we get back to the farm, I want to know everything._" Her Gaelic was smooth, flawless, and her tone brooked no argument.

Seamus, flabbergasted at her grasp of the language, could only nod. "Aye, lass, aye. I promise. But let's get home, first."

* * *

"What d'ya mean she ain't fuckin' here?"

Maggie Leary glared back at the man who barked at her and hardened her jaw. "Use that language 'round me again, Connor MacManus, an' I'll be sure ta let yer Ma know just what a gutter-mouth ye are."

Connor drew up short and growled before spinning on his heel and pacing along the porch. He eyed Murphy, silently pleading with his brother to talk some sense into the older woman.

Murphy rubbed his lip and stepped forward to the door. "We're sorry fer bustin' in here, Mrs. Leary. But ya have ta believe that this is serious. We need ta know where Pam is. Please."

Maggie opened her mouth to answer when the door swung open wider and Jack Leary stepped onto the porch. He looked Murphy up and down, smirking as he did so. "Did ya come here fer round two?" he asked.

"Look, we're wastin' fuckin' time," Connor huffed, shoving Murphy aside. "It's Jack, right? We need ta find Pam an' get the three of ya somewhere safe."

Jack looked between his Aunt and the two men occupying his porch. "Jesus Christ, what tha fuck are ya on about?"

"Jack!" Maggie hissed at his curse.

"Lord's fuckin' name," Connor growled darkly.

Murphy sighed and pushed between Pam's brother and his. "Can we save tha fuckin' theatrics fer later?" He looked to Jack. "We're tryin ta keep her safe. We'll find her an' bring her back here, aye? Then we'll fill everyone in."

Jack narrowed his gaze on Murphy and turned to Maggie with a shrug. Maggie nodded and turned back to the MacManus brothers. "She's gone ta town. With her uncle an' Shayne."

"Who the hell is Shayne?" Connor wondered out loud, looking to Murphy.

The darker twin merely shrugged and then looked back to Maggie. "They take yer car?"

Maggie shook her curls. "They're on horserback." She leaned to one side and spied the pair of Irish Hunters the boys had ridden up on. "Looks like yer prepared. I sent them to Abel's on Main Street."

Murphy nodded and leapt down the few steps that led from the porch to the ground. Connor offered a tight smile to Maggie. "Thank ya, ma'am. I promise she'll be safe, aye?"

"Just be quick about it, Connor. We'll see ya here before dark."

Connor nodded once more. "Aye." He turned and followed his brother down to where they'd hitched their horses.

* * *

"Look, Abel, there's no sense in lyin', aye? We saw them come in – that fuckin' coward Seamus an' his niece. The wee lass? I'm assumin' that's Danny's granddaughter."

Abel rubbed his chin and shot Frankie a hard gaze. "It's not yer business, Frankie."

Frankie sneered and leaned up onto the counter, peering up with small, dark eyes. "I'll make it my business, Abel. Just tell me that was Leary's daughter. I'll leave the store, aye?"

"Yer father would be ashamed o'ya," Abel snapped, looking to Marcus for good measure. Marcus wasn't exactly the outspoken type like his cousin Frankie, but sometimes reason cold be sought with the more docile of the two.

Frankie slammed his fist onto the counter, demanding Abel's attention. "Don't try ta drag Marcus inta this; he pisses his pants when the wind blows wrong. I'm talkin' to ya, Seamus. Frankie McGee. An' don't bring up me father again." He dropped back to his feet, having pushed up onto his toes, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Now, then. I'm assumin' that ya gave em' fair warnin' me and Marcus were headed this way. So, if you'll kindly point me to tha back…"

"Oi, Frankie," Marcus muttered, nudging his cousin suddenly.

Frankie sighed, rolled his eyes, and then turned to Marcus. "_What_," he droned.

Marcus nodded to the window and then pointed a finger. "I think tha back way is obsolete. Looks like they're gettin' away, cousin."

Frankie growled and shoved Marcus aside, heading to the window. Sure enough, the huge mounts they'd spotted in front of the store were gone, and swiftly making their way up the main road.

"They're fuckin' headed fer Ballyhue." He turned back to Abel. "Think about yer next words, yer next actions, wisely, Abel. Yer talkin' ta tha next head o' Dublin."

Abel's jaw hardened. "Get out o'me store, Frankie. An' take yer cousin' wit' ya. Danny Leary will come back from tha dead b'fer ya get that seat. An' if he won't, yer father Angus will."

Frankie sneered and surged up onto the counter, his fist already cocked, but Marcus hauled him back down. "The Leary girl, Frankie. C'mon, we can't get through Ballyhue by car. We'll hafta ride."

* * *

Connor flew through the door of Abel's Grocery, giving the older man his second scare of the day. Abel rounded on the MacManus twins and scowled, his hands curling into fists. "Hail Mary, Mother o'God, I'm goin' ta have a heart attack, MacManus!"

Connor ignored the man's outburst and stepped up to the counter. "Is Seamus Leary still here – are they still here?" His mind was reeling.

Abel shook his head. "Just missed em'. Frankie and Marcus McGee just went after them. They were headed to Ballyhue. Seamus had a hunter, but I fear the Shire horses may slow their way…"

Connor was already pulling the door open, Murphy hot on his heels. "We'll catch them up."

* * *

"Don't look back, Shayne. Just keep your eyes straight ahead, all right?" Pam gave her best reassuring smile to her daughter and prayed that the girl's hands were strong enough to hold onto the reins.

Once the trio had cleared the Naas limits, Seamus had pulled them all into a hard gallop. Shire horses were meant for work, not speed, and though they moved swiftly, the going was rough. Pam feared that they'd be overtaken, and she dared her own glance over her shoulder, just able to make out the McGee boys in the early afternoon light.

"Seamus," she called, the edge of fear evident in her voice.

"Aye, I know, lass," Seamus called back, reaching down to where his rifle rested in its perch near his leg. "Keep Shayne clear, aye? Ride up ahead." He wheeled his mount around and pulled the gun free, and cocked it before pressing it to his shoulder.

"Shayne, c'mon." Pam steered Loner next to Murphy and reached, snagging the reins from her daughter's hands. She then led them off of the road and into the overgrown ditch. She didn't miss the wide-eyed look of fear and excitement in her daughter's eyes. Too much of Matt in her, Pam groused to herself. Her late husband had been a thrill seeker, and it seemed that the gene had been passed honestly. "Shayne," Pam called, gathering the young girl's attention. "Shayne, listen to me, all right? We have to ride, fast and hard, okay? Don't look back, no matter what you hear, no matter what happens. Uncle Seamus says these boys know their way. You'll make it home, I promise."

Shayne shifted in her saddle and nodded at her mother. "You're right behind me?"

"Always," Pam nodded. She handed the reins back to Shayne and raised her hand, landing her palm smartly on Murphy's rump. The horse took off like a canon ball, barrelling through the underbrush and pulling up back onto the road onto the next rise.

Pam swung around, fearing the worst, and was instead frozen in place by a second pair of horses, fast approaching, their riders standing in the stirrups as they thundered up through the moors. She'd never seen him on horseback, but she'd recognize Connor MacManus anywhere. And wherever Connor was, Murphy was close behind, and she watched as the twins gained on the McGee boys, flanking the enemy and drawing their own rifles with practised ease.

* * *

_An Irish Translation:_

_Banphrionsa: princess_


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N_ _I have a feeling this story will be updated more frequently thanks to a general love of all things fic-related right now. My peers are writing, I'm writing, and it's all moving along at great speeds. Thanks to all that are still with me and who take the time to read, review, follow, fave, etc. It's always such a great feeling to get all of those notifications._

_I own nothing that Troy Duffy created, but my offer still stands to help him write the third movie. I tweeted him but he never got back to me. Oh well, such is life. I'll just continue to play with the twins and their hearts and affections and emotions and general awesomeness_

* * *

At first, Pam wasn't sure what had happened. It all seemed to go in slow motion. Two gunshots rang out, startling her horse so that he sidestepped along the rise. She watched as Seamus' own mount reared up and screeched, a bright wash of red blood spilling down the flank, before she heard her uncle's own scream. Seamus' rifle clattered out of his hand as he reached to clasp his arm, now limp and useless at his side, his shirtsleeve coloring quickly with his blood. Pam's heart leapt in her throat as she heard Connor's angry curse.

She didn't wait around to see what happened next and instead wheeled her giant beast around and headed in the direction she'd sent Shayne. The girl was gone, disappeared from the road, and while part of Pam sighed in relief, another part panicked at the thought of her daughter being lost out on the moors. She kicked Loner into a hard gallop even as another set of gunshots rang out from the gorge behind her.

It all looked the same to her – trees, brush, bog, and heather – and it sailed by as the Shire horse ate up miles along the rough path. There were no hoof prints to follow Shayne but Pam pressed on, veering into the trees. What if Shayne had fallen? What if the horse had spooked and bucked her off? What if… Tears stung her eyes and she shook her head violently, refusing to let her worst fears get the best of her. She needed to find Shayne and get out of the moors, she knew that, and she needed to steer clear of the men that were in pursuit of her.

* * *

Connor barely afforded Seamus a passing glance, just enough to get a hasty nod from the older man and a barked order to bring both girls back unharmed. Like Connor would have it any other way. He gritted his teeth with a growl and looked back to where Frankie and Marcus had managed to get ahead, now in pursuit of Pam and the second Shire horse which carried a passenger on bigger than a child. He didn't have time to ask questions, and Murphy pulled up along side of him. They exchanged a quick look.

"We need to split up," Murphy called out. "Better chances of everyone getting out alive. Frankie will follow Pam. I'll lead Marcus off and go after the other horse."

Connor nodded and edged his horse off in the direction that Frankie had gone in pursuit of Pam while Murphy took a moment to scan the roadside. He seemed to pick up on something there and he followed it into the thick underbrush of the ditch. "Looks like they crossed into the woods here," Murphy continued with a frown. "Pam's headed towards Halloran's Hideout." He squinted up at the darkening sky.

Connor frowned and did the same. "Aye, an' there's rain fer ya. Three days worth at that. Those woods are hell ta go through in midday sun. Right. Keep goin' after tha second horse." His gaze shot to the trees where Pam had ridden, and it narrowed to daggers. "I've a mind ta gut Frankie McGee if he so much as waves a gun in her direction."

* * *

Frankie wrinkled his brow and swore as the trail he'd been following suddenly vanished. He twisted in the saddle, looking in every direction, trying to find a point of reference. He wasn't sure exactly which way he'd come in, and he was damn certain he didn't quite know the way out. These lands were virtual mysteries to him and Marcus, but the Leary girl would do no better. The only ones who probably knew their way around were the damn MacManus twins and they had shown up like the bad pennies they were and blown his neat little plan to bits. The first fat drops of rain suddenly cut down through the overhead branches and the wind picked up considerably, making the trees creak where they swayed. He spat and cursed again, weighing his options as the rain continued to fall. It was coming in sheets seconds later, and Frankie abandoned his plan for the time being. He began picking his way back towards daylight, hoping that Marcus had fared better with the child.

* * *

Murphy's keen blue eyes scanned the forest while the rain fell steadily. He swiped a hand back over his face, through his hair, and slid from the saddle to study the underbrush. Twigs and branches had been recently trampled and he cocked his head, listening for any sound beyond the pattering of rain drops and the faint whistle of wind.

Suddenly, there it was: a faint, high call, and at first he thought he was hearing things through the sound of the rainstorm. Closing his eyes, he concentrated and sure enough, he heard it again: a small, but clear voice calling out, "Murphy."

His eyes flashed open and he held his breath as a shiver ran up his spine. It was the rain playing tricks on him, he was sure of it, but then, he heard it again, this time closer, this time a little more frantic.

He stood and gathered his horse's reins, and began picking his way towards the voice. He was too old to be scared of banshees, but the fact that he'd heard his own name on the wind still made him wary. Clicking his tongue, he urged his horse forward through the spongy undergrowth, pushing aside branches where they hung in his way. He heard the voice call his name out again, longer, as if searching for him. Finally, against his better judgement, he called out, "Hallo?" He then paused his walking and waited.

A few seconds later, there was a small reply. "Hello? Is there someone there?"

Murphy made a face. Was that a child's voice? He pushed a little further until he came into a small clearing, and there, smack in the centre, huddled into a green slicker and mud-caked Dubarry boots, was a child. Superstitions getting the better of him, he paused at the clearing, toeing the imaginary ring there, and searched for mushrooms. _Fer fuck's sake, s'not a fairy ring_, he could hear Connor growl. _It's a child, Murph. Stop being such a pussy_. Murphy looked back at the child – a little girl – and he flicked his hair from his eyes. "Hi," he offered with a small smile.

The girl nodded. "H…hi," she stuttered back through a shiver.

"Was that you callin' me name?"

The girl made a confused face. "I'm looking for my horse. He's a Shire horse. His name's Murphy."

Murphy's mouth quirked higher. "Is that so?" He took a few cautious steps forward. "That's me name, too."

The girl giggled. "Really?"

Murphy nodded. "Aye. What's yer name, girl?"

"Shayne," she repeated, watching as he approached. She took a small step backwards.

Murphy stopped as she stepped away from him, and he put his hands up and dropped into a crouch. "S'all right, girl. M'not gonna hurt ya, aye? Yer Shayne?" He stared at her face, taking in the familiar shape and color of eyes that she'd obviously gotten from her mother. The dark hair was another story; he could see the heavy fall of her bangs over her forehead. Her face was Pam's, for certain. He ventured a little further. "How old are ya?" He didn't think it was possible but…

"M'five," she announced.

Murphy nodded, quickly doing the math. She wasn't Connor's. But then where was her father? "I know yer Ma, Pam. An yer Uncle Seamus. Me Da has land next to his."

Shayne nodded and shivered again. "I lost his horse."

"He'll be fine, girl, I promise ya. Seamus' horses are a smart lot, aye? They know the way home. Are ya cold?"

"A little," she admitted.

"What do ya say we get outta the mud an back t'yer uncle's, then, aye?" He held out his hand.

Shayne hesitated a moment, eyeing the dark-haired man up and down. He reminded her of her own father in some ways. But he reminded her of her horse even more. She narrowed her eyes sceptically as Aunt Maggie's bedtime story from the night before, about shape shifters and faeries on the moors, came back to her. She boldly took a step forward and put her hand into his. She felt herself tugged a little closer and she looked down at his hand, seeing the letters inked on his forefinger. With both hands on his, she drew his finger closer, inspecting the word. She'd seen it before, and another word, _veritas_, drawn just like this, in one of her mother's sketchbooks back at the tattoo studio. Shayne cocked her head and studied Murphy closely. "Do you know Connor?"

Murphy blinked, startled by the girl's question. "Aye," he nodded after a moment. "He's me brother."

"Ma dreams about him."

Murphy stood, his hand still tight in Shayne's grip. "That so? Let's get outta here, lass. No place t'be after dark." He began to lead her to his own horse.

Shayne tugged back on Murphy's hand. "What about Ma?" she asked, her voice sounding strained.

Murphy boosted the girl up into his saddle and then swung up behind her, taking up the reins. "Connor's gone after yer Ma," he murmured, softly urging his horse forward. "She's safe with him."

* * *

It had started to rain, and it wasn't helping Pam's state of mind. The drops were heavy, falling steadily down and soaking her hair to the point that tiny rivers were rolling under her collar and down her back. Her cheek stung where a branch had snagged it, and to top it off, Loner had slowed from a gallop, to a trot, to a stubborn walk, only urged forward by a string of curses and a sharp kick to the ribs. Even at that, he'd only go forward a few feet before stopping and picking up his head, his ears flickering. Pam knew that the giant horse heard something. She couldn't afford to be slowing down now; the McGee that pursued her could be on top of her at any moment. She swore again and dug a knee into Loner's side.

The ground fell low, into a swampy bog, and Loner skirted as best he could, but still his hooves were sucked down with every other step. A tremor went through the horse as it shied, nervous at the uneven terrain. Pam glanced up, desperately in search of a break in the clouds, a slice of sunlight, something to orient herself with, but there was nothing there but thick, slate gray clouds and the ever hardening rain.

It was a struggle to cross the bog, though it stretched no more than six or seven feet across. By the time horse and rider had sloughed through it, both looked haggard with Loner covered from forelegs to chest with mud and Pam soaked through with rain and sweat. She itched under her jacket and sweater and felt a tremor run down Loner's body. He was still nervous. Pam dared a glance back over her shoulder. She caught movement deep within the trees she'd left behind and her body went rigid. The McGee boys were relentless, it seemed. She turned back to the woods before her and wondered where Connor was.

"Ya wanna hold up there, lass? This rain's makin' for a tough path ta follow."

Pam twisted around in her saddle at the familiar brogue as Connor rode out of the trees and edged along the bog she'd just traversed. Leaning up on the saddle, he narrowed his eyes to the point just beyond Loner and then looked to Pam with a nod. "Ya found the path ta Halloran's," Connor pointed out. As he spoke, the rain turned heavy again, the noise of it hitting leaves and branches almost deafening. "An' just in time, too," he called. "Stay put – I'm comin' fer ya."

Pam watched as Connor urged his horse through the thick mud. His face was drawn in concentration as his mouth moved gently. She couldn't hear exactly what he was saying, but she guessed it was a myriad of encouraging words in half a dozen languages, spoken in that soft, dulcet tone he used when trying to calm his brother, or even her. With a few clicks of his tongue and one ridiculous kissing-noise, the Irish hunter kicked forward and churned the last few feet, pulling up onto drier ground with a decidedly light step. Connor then pulled up next to Pam and looked up at her.

"Did ya get tha biggest on ye could find?" he smirked, nodding at Loner's towering bulk.

Pam rolled her eyes. "It was Seamus' idea."

Connor's mouth lifted more and he reached out with a practised hand and ran it down Loner's neck. "He's a good horse, lass." His eyes flicked back to Pam's. "Both o'them." He watched the panic flare in Pam's eyes and he rushed to continue. "It's all right, Murphy's gone after th'other one."

Pam sucked in a relieved breath and held it for a second. "Thank you," she breathed, not really to Connor, but more to the wind, hoping that somehow her gratitude would reach Murphy. She looked back to Connor who watched her with hesitant curiosity. "You said this was a path?"

Connor blinked, and suddenly he remembered the rain and the impending darkness that came with weather like this in the spring. "Aye. It leads up to Halloran's cabin. Not many folks know about it. Be a spot of dry ground, wait the storm out." He moved his horse to the barely-visible path at a slow walk. He turned back to Pam who watched him carefully. "Yer not gettin' any drier out here," he announced with half a shrug.

"Can't get any wetter than wet, either," Pam replied with a frown. Still, she nudged Loner on to follow, and huddled down into the collar of her jacket.

* * *

Halloran's Cabin was more of a shack than anything else. It was built half into a hillside, tucked into trees, and Pam would have missed it altogether if Connor hadn't led her from the path (or non-path, as it was; Pam was still having trouble seeing what Connor said was plainly laid out in front of them) and out along the rockier terrain the trees had given way to. A copse of Whitebeam trees to one side of the structure created a natural canopy at least fifteen feet wide and here Connor dismounted, his boots hitting relatively dry ground. He grinned up at Pam as she brought Loner to a standstill and held his hand out. She didn't need it, but she took it anyway, and slid from the saddle. When she landed, she was glad she'd taken the hand offered – she was more or less boneless from the hips down, and the swaying motion of riding, combined with the heavy tattoo of raindrops, had made her drowsy. She leaned heavily into Connor, her hand slipping from his to clutch his jacket, and her face tipping up to his.

Connor's brow furrowed at the exhaustion in Pam's face. His arm tightened around her as he pulled her up against him and encouraged her to find her footing. "Don't fall asleep on me yet, lass. Hafta get ya indoors, an' outta those wet clothes."

Pam arched an eyebrow and shook her head tiredly. "You smooth talker." Still, she shivered, and the idea of shrugging out of the damp wool and the sticky, itchy heat created by her slicker, was a welcome one. She narrowed her eyes as she scanned the area. "Can we risk a fire?" she asked, hopefully.

"Aye," Connor nodded, glancing up at the sky and then back out the way they had come. "When I said folks don't know it's out here, I wasn't kidding." He tied off both horses to a low branch and then ushered Pam towards the cabin.

He guessed it hadn't been used in some time. The door, swollen with moisture and age, was stuck in the frame and it took him three tries of throwing his weight against it before it nudged open. A waft of cool, damp, stale air greeted them and Connor coughed and squinted into the darkness. "Wait here a second, aye?"

Pam shivered just inside the door, with the rain pelting behind her, while ahead of her and endless blackness stretched out. The musty smell was from the earthen side of the shelter; it also added to the lack of light. She heard Connor shuffling in the dark and then silence. Finally, there was a _snap_ as a match was lit and a warm glow filled the space. After a few moments, the glow intensified, and she watched Connor cross the small space with a kerosene lamp in hand.

He held his hand out to her. "C'mere," he murmured, pulling her close as soon as soon as her fingers touched his.

She wasn't aware that she'd begun trembling, and Connor's brow creased with worry. "We need ta get a fire lit." Tugging Pam across the room, he handed her the lantern and gestured to the rough hewn fireplace. "Gimme some light, aye?" Together, they crouched down and took stock of what they had.

Whoever had last used the cabin had been kind enough to leave a pile of kindling in the hearth, and a few logs for burning to one side. Pam held the light up as Connor ran his fingers over the wood. He deemed it dry enough, and set about building a fire, arranging small sticks in a precise manner before pushing a handful of relatively dry moss snagged from the overhead earth down into the centre of his arrangement. A box of matches appeared from his coat pocket and he struck one against the stone lining the hearth and touched the tiny flame to the tinder he'd set out. Smoke puffed and he made a face before stretching out on his belly and gently blowing onto the smouldering mass. From where Pam watched, the tiny flame flickered, then wavered, and then seemed to go out. She held back a disappointed sigh and watched as Connor continued to blow gently on the kindling. Then, as if he'd flipped a switch, there was a flare of light and the tinder lit, and Connor turned his head to afford Pam a smug smile.

"Told ya I was a boy scout."

Pam snorted, but felt relief wash over her with that tiny flame. Nodding, she let her eyes drift shut. There was a soft curse from Connor's lips and then the shuffling of boots. She felt herself shifted, pressed forward and turned to face the ever growing heat coming from the fireplace. Behind her was the solid heat of Connor and for a while, she let herself drift and find comfort as his arms wrapped around her tightly.

* * *

Her eyes snapped open and she sat up. "Shayne!" she gasped, lurching forward, trying to get to her feet. That was when she realized she was still held snugly by a pair of strong arms.

Behind her, Connor grunted and squeezed his hand over her hip. "Easy, lass," he murmured in her ear. "You've been sleepin' fer a few hours now." He shifted and moved an arm away, only to come back with a tin cup of liquid. "Here." When Pam hesitated, he chuckled. "S'only water, lass. But there's whiskey, too, if ya like."

Pam said nothing, merely took the water and gulped it down before handing the cup back to Connor. He quickly refilled it and Pam drank her fill that way, with Connor refilling her cup until she shook her head and hand her hands over her hair. She felt her hips twinge, and her thighs felt like rocks. Her body had stiffened with her rest and she pushed away from Connor and up from the floor, wincing as she stretched.

"I'm getting to old to ride a horse that big," she lamented. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she glanced back to Connor, who, sure enough, sat on the floor, arms hanging on his knees, a grin gracing his features. "Don't even say it, Connor."

He shrugged, feigning innocence. "Wasn't thinkin' anythin', lass."

The half-assed grin on his face told Pam differently but she ignored the quip. Her shoulders hitched under her slicker, and Connor's attention was caught again by her damp clothes. He moved to the door, his mind already working. "Take yer coat off, aye? Yer sweater is wool, it'll keep ya warm despite it being wet. But ya need ta dry off. I'll be right back." Glancing back over his shoulder he saw Pam hesitate, her hands clutching the sides of her coat as her arms wrapped around her body. "M'just goin' out ta unsaddle the horses, aye?" He moved back across the short distance between them and wound his hands around Pam, pulling her close once more. "An' I don't know about you, but I'm fuckin' starvin', lass. Got a few things in the saddlebags. Not a lot, but I don't think we have much of a choice out here." He reached up and pushed the curls from Pam's face, tucking them back behind her ears. "I promise ya I'm comin' right back, aye?" _And when I get back_, he thought, _yer gonna tell me who 'Shayne' is_.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N Smut inspires smut! So thanks to DeDe324 and Valerie E Mackin and Siarh for writing the dirty BDS stuff that I so love to read. All of my peers inspire me, too, so in addition, shouts out to incog ninja (go read her Bethyl fic 'Hold On'), aislingisobel (who writes a wicked Deadpool), Kapten Kramp (my Swedish twin and author of a great Merle/ Beth fic in the TWD fandom), pitbullsrok (who hasn't written much lately but has a gorgeous smile so I'll keep her) and Nmbr1fanilow who gives more than necessary (not that I'm complaining)._

* * *

Connor ducked out of the shelter and jogged to the Whitebeam canopy. Working quickly, he unsaddled both mounts and managed to find a bit of fodder for them. He lugged each saddle back to the shelter, setting them just inside the door, and when he finished, he was pleased to see that Pam had shrugged out of her heavy coat and had taken a seat before the fire. Connor crouched, rummaging through his saddle bags and came up with a tin of corned beef hash and a container of leftover boxty. Digging a little deeper, he smiled when his fingers curled around the pint of whiskey he always kept with him, just in case he was stuck out in the fields with the flock overnight. His hands full of what would be their meal, he moved to the small wooden table and set about opening the tin of hash with the knife from his hip pocket. His eyes continued to stray to where Pam sat, her eyes focused on the flames.

Finally, he broke the silence. "Who's Shayne?"

Pam started, as if not knowing he was there, and she rubbed her eyes before looking down at her hands. "She's my daughter," she answered in a thick voice. She let the words linger in the air before daring to look up at Connor.

Connor had frozen at her answer, halfway between dishing out corned beef and boxty into the tin bowls he'd found on a shelf and wiped clean. He stared at her with wide, blue eyes. "Yer…" He frowned, looking down at the tin and the fork in his hands before taking a deep breath. "I…" he broke off, not sure what to say. Dropping the fork, he rubbed his fingers over his brow and drew in a deep breath. "Christ, lass, I didn't know."

Pam shrugged and stood, too on edge to stay seated. She began to pace. "How could you have known?" she began. "I had no way of contacting you. No way of knowing where you were…" and here she paused and approached the table, standing across from Connor. She stared at him for a long measure. "And yet this whole time you were _here_. You're neighbours with my _uncle_."

"I didn't know," Connor repeated. He couldn't think of anything more to say. He'd been ignorant, caught up in the aftermath of losing Rocco, losing Wren, and dealing with his brother's heartbreak. He told her as much. "An' then," he concluded with a heavy sigh, "just as Murphy was finally startin' ta come around, the fact that I'd lost ya hit me, an' it hit me hard."

"Is that why you're boxing?"

Connor lifted a shoulder. "Needed somethin' ta take me mind off ya. Not that it did much good." He reached across the table and snared Pam's hand with his, squeezing her fingers in reassurance. "But like I said, yer here now…"

"Connor, don't." She shook her head, cutting him off from doing further damage. "We can't go back to the way things were." Her thumb grazed the back of his hand before she pulled free. "So much has changed. You, and me…I have a kid, now."

"Aye," Connor rasped. "If I could…I mean, if there had been any way of me knowing about Shayne…" he heaved a heart-heavy sigh and sank onto one of the two chairs at the table. "Christ Pam, m'sorry I wasn't around fer the both of ya."

Pam's brow furrowed deeper the longer Connor rambled, and when he was finished, the troubled look on his face, combined with the wavering timbre of his voice, slid together like pieces to a puzzle. "You…think that Shayne's your daughter?"

Connor lifted his head and shrugged. "Well, yeah." His tone was so sure, but the clear confusion on Pam's face made him sit a bit straighter. "Ya mean, she's not?"

Pam swallowed thickly and looked at her hands. "No," she said lowly. She shook her hair from her face and looked Connor in the eye. "She's not your daughter, Connor." As his eyebrows rose, Pam continued. She began to pace again. "Ya told me ta get married and have babies and…"

"_Jesus,_ Pam, when have ya _ever_ listened to me?" Connor crowed incredulously. Coming up from the chair he caught Pam mid-stride by the shoulders.

"You fucking _left_," Pam roared, and she slammed her fists into Connor's chest and shoved him back. "You left, and Murphy left, and Wren and Rocco died and…" She sucked in a breath to keep from sobbing. "I was _alone_, Connor. I didn't have _anyone_." She stared long and hard at the man before her.

Connor was struck silent, a rare thing, especially when it came to Pam. He blinked, her last words sinking in. "Pam…I've been alone since the day I left ya."

"You've always got Murphy," Pam replied flippantly.

"Murphy steals the blankets," he shot back. He took a step forward and went for broke, cupping her face with warm, wide palms. "What happened ta…ta Shayne's father?" His tone was cautious, and he steeled himself for the worst.

Pam couldn't help pressing her face into Connor's warm touch, and her heart broke all over again as she replied, "He died. Shayne was two."

Connor winced at how thin her voice became with her admission. "Christ, lass," he groaned with sympathy. She stiffened as he pulled her closer, but he refused to let her go. His arms came around her tightly. "It's all right, Pam. Yer girl is safe. Murph won't let any harm come t'her."

He felt good after so long. He felt right, despite everything they'd been through, together and separately. No matter how different things were now, he still felt the same, smelled the same, sounded the same. He was still Connor, older now, and maybe not as jovial as once might have been, but that was a small thing. Pam's fingers curled into his shoulder muscles as she clung to him and pressed her face against his neck.

"I'm so sorry, Pam," he said once more, and this time he poured every emotion he could into those four words. "No one deserves that, least of all you." Ducking his head down, he managed to pull her face from where she hid it and he smoothed her hair back with gentle fingers. "_Uimh caoineadh níos mó chroi._" He paused and dared to touch his lips to hers. He felt her melt seconds before he pulled away, and he pressed his forehead to hers to concentrate on each measured breath she took.

Her heart was pounding wildly. "I can't lose y'again, Connor. I can't_._" Her fingers wrapped around the front of his jacket and she forced herself to lift her head and search his eyes.

Connor nodded and licked his lips, and angled his head down once more. "_Tá mé anseo anois,_" he breathed over her lips."_Agus nil mé ag dul in áit ar bith_."

This time, Pam kissed him, her mouth flush, fevered and passionate. She moaned against him, swiped her tongue out along his lips, begging for entrance. If Connor had come back into the cabin with the idea of going slow and steady with her, he didn't get a chance to inform her of his plans. Once she tasted him, she wanted more, she wanted everything, hot, hard, against her – _inside _of her. Her fingers raked back through his hair and she tugged at his bottom lip with her teeth.

Connor was startled by her reaction, but it soon faded, and he was nothing, if not encouraged, as Pam's lips and teeth fought against his. It was like their first kiss – it always was – and while he put up a fight for dominance, in the end, he let her push him back against the table, the tin dishes clanking gently in the otherwise silent cabin. He groaned as her knee snugged up against his groin, pressing against his rapidly growing erection, and he couldn't seem to keep his hands in one place for too long. The sailed from her hair to her shoulders, down her arms, up again to her flanks to cup her breasts, skid over her ribs to her hips, where he pushed and pulled in time with their frantic kisses.

He grunted as her teeth snagged his lip, and he tore away with a hot gasp, staring at her with wide, lust-blown eyes. For a moment, they stared at each other, their heavy breathing filling the silence, and then Connor's hands were moving. His fingers hooked into the waistband of her jeans and he hauled her close, melding their pelvises together. His other hand slid down the small of her back and gripped her ass, pushing her against the rapidly growing erection behind his fly, all they while watching her face and the pleasure that showed there.

She needed to be naked – _both_ of them needed to be naked, and Pam twisted her fingers down around Connor's, popping the button of her jeans before grappling with his belt buckle and tearing it open. It was a flurry of hands, pushing and pulling, sliding against fabric and flesh. Connor's fingers felt like flames licking over the damp, cool skin of Pam's body and she hissed and pressed into him, seeking more of his warmth.

Panting, Connor wound his hands around her hips and waist, frowning as he encountered more and more cold skin. "Christ, lass, yer freezin'." Fisting her sweater, he yanked it up her back and then over her head. Tugging it off her arms, he threw it to one side and did the same with her t shirt. Gooseflesh rose where his hands wandered and he narrowed his eyes before pursing his lips and pushing away from the table. One hand snared the hair at the back of her head while the other dove down the back of her pants, and in the process his feet walked them back until they were standing in front of the fire.

He smirked into their kiss and pulled back, his blue eyes gleaming wildly. With a practised move, he tumbled her down to the bare floor and wasted no time tugging the damp denim of her jeans off of her hips. Every inch of Pam's body that was revealed to him was the sweetest memory, and yet he noted the subtle changes that had come with the years. She was firmer in some places, softer in others, and he traced every curve, old and new, every mark, every inch of her golden skin with his fingers and his lips.

She shook beneath him, and not from the cold. Her fingers curled over his forearms, anchoring her – and him – firmly in place. After Matt's death, she hadn't bothered dating, and had dove headfirst into her work. She hadn't been touched this way in years and Connor was breaking her down with his familiar touch faster than her brain could process. Forcing herself to let go, her hands wrestled his shirt up and off of his torso. With their hips rolling against one another, Pam moaned, arching up into Connor, and her head pressing back against the floor.

She panted into his mouth and wasted no time reaching into his jeans, closing her fist around hot, hard flesh. Even the weight and thickness of his length was familiar, and she keened softly as Connor's mouth scored over her jaw and her earlobes, her neck and her collarbones. He muttered curses and prayers, soft words of love and then, when he had finally worked her panties to one side, his middle finger sank into her hot, tight heat, and he moaned into her skin before lifting his eyes to hers.

"Fuck, yer as tight as tha night I first had ya," he murmured. His other hand cupped her face, fingers spanning back behind her ear and twining her hair around his fingertips. His hand jerked against her, his palm pressing up against the swollen little button of her clit. After a few seconds he angled his palm away and searched with his thumb. Sure enough, he found the barbell still there through the bundle of nerves. His smile turned positively deviant and he pumped another finger in along side the first one, and once more ground the heel of his hand against her.

Her reply was a ragged gasp, and his name drawn in a long, jagged groan as she pushed her hips up into his hand. He felt incredible, and her breath caught as he slowly worked his fingers inside to hook against those deepest inches. The tips of his fingers fluttered there, making her hiss. Pressure was already building; he was going to make her come soon and she knew it would be hard.

Not to be outdone, her hand that wasn't squeezing and stroking Connor's length shoved his jeans down his hips until she could snag them with her toes and shove them to his knees. There, they twisted and he paused very briefly, wiggling until he could kick them off and to one side. With more room, she turned her wrist and he howled at the new sensation before cocking an eyebrow at her and grunting in time with her movements. He felt himself swell even more at her touch. He'd never had to show her what he liked; she somehow seemed to know he liked it rough, and fast, and clearly she hadn't forgotten that. Her thumb rolled over the slick head of his cock as she pushed the foreskin down his length, setting his nerves on fire.

She glanced down where she gripped him, moaning softly at how well he fit her hand, and when she looked back up into his face, she saw pure lust and anticipation. His breathing was labored and sweat beaded on his forehead. When she tightened her fist once more, he let out a strangled cry and squeezed his eyes shut. "Fuck, Pam, m'not gonna last." Still, his shoulder worked furiously, and he was determined to have her fall apart first, or at least the same time as him.

They were minutes away from their climax; both could taste it on the air and feel it in the trembling of one another's limbs. Connor's fingers still slid in and out of Pam's body, pulling moisture from her to slide it up and around every hot inch of her cunt. With a growl, he pushed away from her body with his other hand and then snagged her panties, tearing them with such savagery that Pam cried out. Her hips bounced up and then slammed back down as the cotton tore uselessly. She pouted as he pried her fingers from his cock, but then there was a clever spin in his hips and suddenly time froze, and they did too, and for a moment they did nothing but stare at each other as every inch of Connor took up every inch inside of Pam.

The air seemed to be sucked out of the room. Beside them, the flames crackled and snapped, and sent shadows over their faces at they took in the sight of each other for the first time in forever. Pam's belly trembled and she gripped his length, squeezing as he rotated his hips and sank down until they were pressed together, head to toe. Only then did Connor's breath leave him in a shuddering sigh.

"Oh, my God, love," he murmured, his eyes slipping shut as he kissed her with open mouth and searching tongue. "Oh, my God," he chanted, drawing his hips back and pushing his toes into the wood floor for traction. Moving forward, he bottomed out, touching her deeply.

Pam arched and caught his hair with one hand, his shoulder with the other, and held on as he rocked into her. Her shoulders slid up the floor as he pressed into her again, and she bit her lip as his voice, soft and reverent, wrapped around her. He was warm everywhere, and scorching her between her thighs. She gave herself over to him, like every other time she'd been with him, and she cried out for him and finally let her tears fall. This was where she was meant to be, she knew at that moment like she'd known years before. She panted sharply, wrapping her legs up over Connor's hips, and met each long, hard thrust he made.

He choked on a curse and his fist came down on the floor next to her head. Then, his other hand gathered her up at the hip and helped her along, pulling her down his length until they both saw stars. Every flutter of her muscles against his cock was like heaven; every breath and moan and sigh she heaved only served to spark his memories and spur him to ride her harder, and deeper than ever before. He groaned as she clamped down around him again, and he inhaled sharply through his nose before balancing on his forearm and pulling back from her body to watch as he moved inside of her.

The angle of Connor's hips changed and all at once, he slid home and ground his cock over nerves that had lain dormant. With a tiny snarl she tightened her legs around him and arched back down against his hips, dragging long, hot moans from his mouth and hers. She felt like she was on fire, and doused in ice water, all at the same time. The sight of Connor above her, and when she looked down the length of her body, of him _inside_ of her, always moving in, taking up everything she offered up, was enough to make her cry out hoarsely. It started in her toes and worked up her legs to the space between her hips.

Almost instantly, Connor sensed that she was coming. Not only did she give that same, small hitch in her breath, but her body reacted to his like it had never known his absence. His hips moved faster as she began to shake, and to squeeze, and to tremble. With another well aimed thrust, he caught the backs of her knees with his elbows, sat back on his heels, and proceeded to fuck her relentlessly. Her voice turned choppy as his movements stuttered, and still she met every move he made, until he didn't know where he ended and she began. He felt his own climax spike, searing and hot, up between his hips and along his spine. His body shook as he held her close, and with one more heaving grunt he pulled her tightly to him and held her as he let loose inside of her impossibly tight cunt.

She froze beneath him, her orgasm still rolling over raw nerves, as he arched, tenses, and let his head drop back to his shoulders. He howled, hot and aching and the sound only made Pam moan and arch against him once more, her eyes closing as she let herself feel everything that was the man above her.

He sagged against her moments later, still gasping, still panting, his lips hot and fevered as they covered her face, her lips, her chin, her neck, and lower still, to where she still wore her bra. He traced the lines of ink that he could reach, reminding himself that he needed to get her into a proper bed with a proper amount of time. As his lips wandered, her body relaxed, lost the tension she'd been carrying since the moment she'd laid eyes on him after six years. Finally, too, Connor felt the beast he struggled to keep caged relent, and move back, still present, but content to lay its head down for the first time in six years and sleep soundly, and warmly, and loved.

* * *

_Some Irish Translations:_

___Uimh caoineadh níos mó_ chroi: No more crying, my heart

___Tá mé anseo anois_ : I'm here now

___Agus nil mé ag dul in áit ar bith_ : and I'm not going anywhere


End file.
